


Gilded Cage

by canarian



Category: Glee
Genre: Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:52:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 149,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canarian/pseuds/canarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><img/>In the winter of 1895, Blaine Anderson, the son of a wealthy doctor, and Kurt Hummel, the son of a middle class mechanic, cross paths at a luxury hotel in the quiet seaside town of St. Augustine, Florida. With everyone and everything working to keep them apart, can they find a way to be together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Mimsy and Lissa for being my wonderful betas, and extra special thanks to Becky for creating a really stellar piece of [cover art.](https://www.dropbox.com/s/ij7ishifb3zp7i2/Guilded-Cage-Cover-Art-FINAL-ALT1.jpg)

PART I

**** January 1895 ****

Blaine stepped off the train and inhaled deeply; the air smelled briny and sharp, and it felt as though it could be cut clean through with a knife. It had been bitingly cold back in New York when he left two days ago, but here in Florida, the January air was almost stiflingly hot. He stuck a finger under his collar and pulled it away from his neck, but it did no good. He was sweating already and felt overdressed in his thick, woolen coat.  
  
It seemed fitting, this oppressive heat, given that Blaine was being forced into a life he didn't want. He had been sent to his grandfather's home for the winter to meet some of the wealthiest families from New York — and as Blaine's mother had insisted, to find a suitable woman to take as a wife. He wanted neither, not caring for the ridiculous rules of courtship and snobbish women, or for the obligations and expectations that came with maintaining one's position in that level of society. But it was expected. He was the youngest son of a prominent doctor, and he had been living on borrowed time already. It was time to grow up, and his mother demanded it happen soon.  
  
Blaine sighed and looked at the sky. It was a hazy yellow, although it was practically cloudless; it should have been a beautiful day, but it felt wrong somehow. Perhaps it was the many meetings his mother had set for him with wealthy families who had daughters of marrying age; perhaps it was the lack of Bohemian sensibilities in the South.  
  
Whatever it was, his plans for this trip were rapidly falling apart, including the short journey from the train station to his destination. Blaine had been looking forward to a stroll in the mid morning sunshine — a moment's escape from the inevitable march to his permanent entrapment — but a hansom cab was waiting for him to take him the four blocks to his grandfather's home. It seemed ridiculous for such a short walk. Back home, he regularly walked all over Manhattan without batting an eye.  
  
"Mr. Anderson," a tall black man in livery said to him. "Your trunk has been transferred from the train already. Shall we head to Markland, sir?"  
  
"Yes, Mr…?"  
  
"Jenkins, sir. Just call me Jenkins."  
  
"Very good, Jenkins. I presume my grandfather is waiting for me and has a lengthy speech prepared on the virtues of punctuality or something equally rancorous."  
  
Jenkins didn't respond; he simply nodded as he held the carriage door for Blaine, who stepped inside reluctantly. He knew it was not Jenkins' place to comment on his employer's behavior or his grandson's snide remarks, but Blaine had hoped for a comrade, at least in spirit if not practice.  
  
Dr. Andrew Anderson II was a prominent figure in the St. Augustine community, having been elected mayor nine years prior and having worked as a physician in the community for more than twenty. His palatial home, Markland House, had once been a prosperous plantation, but he had sold much of the land to Henry Flagler several years earlier so the entrepreneur could build his magnificent Ponce de Leon Hotel in the sleepy seaside town. Mr. Flagler hoped to change St. Augustine into the American Riviera.  
  
A self-made man, Flagler had smartly partnered with John D. Rockefeller in forming Standard Oil. His name was now better known among New York society than the Andersons had ever dreamed, and Blaine's mother, Helen, was positively green with envy over it. It was no secret she had sent him to the back pocket of her father-in-law to further ingratiate her oldest child into the high society life of New York's elite. Blaine had an appointment with Mr. Flagler himself when the hotel owner returned from south Florida in late January. Helen Anderson had spent the entire autumn arranging it. What he was to discuss with Mr. Flagler was anyone's guess, but he was expected to keep the appointment come hell or high water.  
  
When the carriage pulled up in front of Markland, Blaine couldn't help but be impressed by its towering white columns and wrap-around porches, looking far grander than was absolutely necessary for size and scope of the small town. Markland sat just west of the orange groves, facing away from the hotel. It was grand indeed — until you looked across the street at the soaring towers of the Ponce with its ornate terracotta details, opulent furnishings and expansive grounds. A wonder of the modern age, his grandfather had said. And it did not disappoint.  
  
The building loomed large and ominous in the background, a thick ivy climbing its poured concrete walls and winding its way skyward as it towered over the city. And Blaine couldn't wait to explore it because the grand structure represented the kind of extravagance he simultaneously abhorred and expected at this point in his life.  
  
Stories of grand balls preceded by five-course meals in the dining room and high-stakes poker games and billiards that lasted into the wee hours were the only consolation in this disgusting endeavor. At least Blaine would be entertained. And how could he not be? The neighboring hotel had an indoor pool and extravagant Russian baths, and then there was the sunshine — something New Yorkers had long since forgotten about by mid November and didn't expect to see much of again until spring. If he had to submit to his mother's will and find a wife, Blaine planned on going home tanned and fat, and perhaps with his wallet a little thicker thanks to his skill at gambling.  
  
He stepped down from the carriage as Jenkins wrestled with his trunk. The shade in the front of the house made the air seem cooler and he tilted his head back to let the breeze caress his face. He should really find his grandfather and let him know he already had plans for the evening so he could get on with the lecture that was surely awaiting him.  
  
Blaine found the eldest Anderson outside near the back gate of the property, chatting with a man wearing overalls who carried a small axe.  
  
"Blaine, this is Jim Bartlett. He prunes my grapefruit trees. Jim, this is my grandson Blaine. He'll be staying with me until at least March."  
  
"Mr. Anderson," Jim said. "Pleased to meet you. I'll tell Mary what you said about rest, doc. Have a good evening." He tipped his straw hat at the two men and headed south toward King Street, whistling a somber melody.  
  
"I'm going to freshen up and then take a stroll," Blaine said, squinting after the caretaker.  
  
"No time. You'll be joining our table at the hotel for dinner tonight," grandfather said. He didn't turn or make eye contact, his gaze followed Mr. Bartlett as he rounded the corner. "No excuses."  
  
Blaine sighed and scuffed his shoe like a petulant child. The soft, sugary sand billowed out around his ankles and settled again.  
  
"And have Jenkins shine your shoes. You look like a factory worker with those dirty things."  
  
"Yes, grandfather," he said to his retreating back.  
  
Blaine hadn't expected a warm welcome, but to get less than a hello from his grandfather, let alone to be chastised for unshined shoes, was more than he could bear at that moment. He wanted to disappear.  
  
Blaine tilted his head back and looked up in the canopy of magnolias lining his grandfather's lawn. Maybe he could just fly away and hide among the branches. The blue sky peeking through reminded him of a summer spent near Cape Cod, when he felt freer and more at ease. He squinted into the sun and shielded his eyes from its glare as he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the sheen of sweat from his neck. It was going to be a long winter.  
  
"Mr. Blaine?"  
  
Blaine looked down to see Jenkins standing beside him, hands behind his back as he bowed his head and waited for a response. Blaine nodded and gestured for him to continue.  
  
"I took your trunk upstairs, sir. Want me to show you to your room?"  
  
He smiled as warmly as he could manage and allowed Jenkins to lead him into the house. As he passed the parlor, he dropped his hat on a small table in the entryway and slowly climbed the front stairs, glancing to his left when a small movement caught his eye and startled him.  
  
His grandfather was seated in the library, sipping a glass of iced tea and reading the evening paper. He looked up as Blaine passed and followed him with scrutiny until Blaine was out of sight, but Blaine still felt his piercing blue eyes on him as he reached the second floor. He was going to have his work cut out for him if he intended to shirk his grandfather's watchful gaze and have some fun on this trip. He needed a plan.  
  
At the top of the stairs, Blaine followed Jenkins to the left and into a room that sat just above the library, facing south over the front lawn.  
  
The bedroom he would be staying in for the next three months was, like everything else at Markland, large and ornate. There were intricate scallop shapes and geometric patterns along the base of the ceiling and across the walls; a polished marble fireplace on one side of the room was framed in carvings of looping floral garlands. The soaring ceilings and expansive windows let in the light in bright, cheery streaks that painted the wood floor a warm yellow.  
  
Blaine noticed that one of the windows opened like a door along the bottom, allowing him access to the attached upstairs verandah. He opened the latch and ducked under the partially opened window to step out into the warm air, and made note of a large trellis to his right; it looked sturdy enough for him to climb. Perhaps that was his way around his grandfather's ever-present scrutiny. He looked out over the lawn, the green grass and trees a welcome change from the stark winter of home. The sweet scent of the orange blossoms from across the street teased him into being charmed by this place, even if he would prefer to be back in New York where he had friends and other things to occupy his time.  
  
Unfortunately it was those very things that had gotten him into this mess to begin with. Blaine's mother had been increasingly insistent that he get married, and she claimed his current lifestyle did not lend itself to Blaine finding a suitable wife. The sort of women Blaine was expected to be interested in did not hang out in bathhouses and Bohemian theatres. In fact, he rarely noticed any women at all.  
  
No, the sort of characters who frequented those establishments were more like Blaine. And that was the crux of the problem: Blaine's lifestyle.  
  
It would horrify Helen Anderson to know the extent of her son's more questionable activities. She simply thought him to be a playboy and a bit of a free spirit, but that was only partially true. Indeed he had no desire to get married, but his reasons were far more problematic than anyone in the Anderson family dared to guess.  
  
Blaine, in fact, preferred the company of young men.  
  
The secret Blaine kept well-hidden would scandalize the entire city of New York and destroy the Andersons' precarious position in society, a predicament Blaine was no more keen to find himself in than his own mother was. So he learned to be discreet, taking his cue from many of the even wealthier men he encountered on his nightly "adventures" in the bathhouses and theatres of New York.  
  
Blaine had actually discovered his preferences when he was quite young, experimenting with his classmates at the exclusive boarding school he attended in England, and it continued into his adulthood when he later attended Harvard. Like many of the boys his age, Blaine was raging with desire and passion and, being at an all-boys school thousands of miles from home, had no place to put it. The school simply turned the other cheek when boys were caught in compromising positions with their classmates, insisting it was a phase and that most young men would outgrow such deplorable behavior. Many did; Blaine did not. Nor did many of his young friends.  
  
That was how he had met Oliver.  
  
Tall, with sandy brown hair and teasing blue eyes, Oliver was athletic and sociable. Like Blaine, he came from money, but didn't let it dictate his life in the way many other boys their age did. They met after a tug-o-war match during field day and became fast friends and eventually lovers, though no one knew of their more amorous activities until they were caught by their dorm monitor during Oliver's senior year. Once they were discovered, Oliver had pulled away, taking part of Blaine with him. He vowed to never let another man ensnare him in such a way, sticking to rent boys and quick encounters after that. No one could ever guess that Blaine was a dandy, or his reputation would be ruined.  
  
After he returned from school, Blaine quickly found a circle of like-minded friends and pushed away his mother's insistence that he begin looking for a wife. He was young and had time, and his mother spoiled her son. It was the perfect life as far as Blaine was concerned. He had no desire to change it, but of course his parents had other ideas. At 25, he was pushing the boundaries of their social circle, and they made it clear he would not be unmarried at 26.  
  
Now, here he was in the most unrefined city he'd ever seen, without even the smallest hope of finding a male lover to occupy his time and absolutely no desire to find a potential wife. He simply needed to find other activities to distract him from his situation.  
  
Blaine reentered his room through the open window and changed out of his traveling suit, pausing to glance over to the bed where Jenkins had laid out his most formal evening jacket and starched collar. He sighed, wishing he could stick to the lighter-weight houndstooth waistcoat that he'd had made for him just before he'd left. It was far more fashionable and much more to Blaine's style and comfort. Still, it was no surprise that dinner with his grandfather was to be a formal occasion. The adjacent winter resort attracted everyone from the Astors to the Rockefellers –– as well as everyone who wanted to be them.  
  
When Blaine reemerged from his room, dressed to the nines, the sun had already slipped below the horizon, and his grandfather was waiting impatiently at the foot of the stairs.  
  
"I would have thought a young bachelor like yourself would be excited to meet all the young ladies at dinner. Instead you're dawdling like a 12-year-old boy."  
  
Blaine bit his lip to keep from retorting, but his disdain must have shown because his grandfather huffed and said, "Really, Blaine. You're entirely too old for this. All of New York society is here for the season. Your mother wants you to find a bride, and that is your solitary goal while you're here. Do you understand me?"  
  
"Yes, grandfather."  
  
"Very well then, my boy. Shall we head to dinner?"  
  
He turned heel and headed for the door without waiting for Blaine's response, which was probably for the best because Blaine was busy glaring after his well-meaning grandfather.  
  
They entered the hotel though the front gate, his grandfather always one for making an entrance. The smell of sulfur coming off the fountain at the center of the courtyard made Blaine's nose tingle. How could the hotel guests stand the smell? It seemed to permeate every corner of the courtyard and seep into his pores.  
  
As they entered the front door, Blaine's eyes were drawn up. He had heard of the intricacies of the murals that adorned the walls and ceilings of the lobby, but to see it with his own eyes was another thing entirely.  
  
The light seemed to dance off the gold leaf details and the cherubs and robed women seemed poised to step off the ceiling and into the domed lobby. He craned his neck to try to see it all and nearly ran into a large, carved wood pillar to his right. His grandfather grabbed his elbow and yanked him toward the center of the room.  
  
"Watch where you're going, boy," he hissed between clenched teeth. "I won't have you embarrassing me in front of these people. Get your head on straight and act like you've been to town before."  
  
Blaine nodded politely and fought the urge to retort. He kept his gaze steady on his grandfather's back as he followed him up the stairs into the dining room.  
  
"Grandfather, shouldn't we go to the bar first?" Blaine asked hopefully as he gestured in the direction of the area to their left.  
  
"Thanks to your dawdling, we missed the cocktail hour. We need to be seated immediately if we hope to eat at all. You can have a brandy after dinner."  
  
The maître d' stood tall and straight as he barked orders at the waiters and greeted guests, his uniform crisp and well-fitted. Blaine couldn't help but admire the broad slope of his nose and his strong jaw. He nodded in the young man's direction, but received only a formal nod in return. He wondered if there were any men of his persuasion on staff. Bell boys and waiters could always be counted on for their willingness to try new things. Perhaps Blaine could befriend one of them.  
  
He made a sweep of the room with his eyes and was greeted with a sight more glorious than the lobby. Brilliant stained-glass windows lined the east and west sides of the dining room and more gold-leaf murals decorated the ceiling. An orchestra played in a balcony overhead and their bright music echoed throughout the room. He tried to keep his gaze near the ground so he wouldn't trip over one of the dozens of tables set with bone china and fine linen. He had to rush to catch up to his grandfather who was already being seated at their table along with a group of people Blaine hadn't met before. That meant introductions and small talk. Blaine sighed deeply and put on his best "society" smile.  
  
"Good evening," he greeted as he approached. The gentleman stood to shake his hand and the older of the two ladies smiled demurely as she held out a hand in greeting after her husband.  
  
"Blaine, this is John Smethurst and his wife, Anabelle," his grandfather said. "And my fiancé, their daughter, Mary." At the name, Blaine noticed his grandfather's smile broadened, and the young woman blushed. He might be able to use that to his advantage later, he decided, as he nodded to Mary Smethurst — a woman 24 years his grandfather's junior and someone his mother had called an "insufferable social climber" — and took his seat to her left. At least he didn't have to worry about being set up with this mousey young woman with her hooked nose and frizzy hair.  
  
"So your grandfather tells us you're a writer," Mr. Smethurst prompted. "Have you had anything published?"  
  
His grandfather scoffed. "Oh my grandson is far too good for anything so common as making money off his talent," he said. "He prefers to live as a Bohemian rather than finding himself a more honorable profession."  
  
"But what about young women?" Mrs. Smethurst asked. "Surely you are planning to take a wife. You must plan ahead, young man."  
  
"That's what I've been trying to tell him," Dr. Anderson said. "His mother wants me to introduce him to Russell Fabray's youngest, Lucy."  
  
"Oh she's a lovely young lady," Mrs. Smethurst gushed. "You must meet her."  
  
Blaine nodded curtly and placed his napkin in his lap, letting the small talk continue around him. He couldn't shake the feeling that his life was spiraling out of control without his consent as he sipped wine and nibbled at food he could barely taste.  
  
A sharp nudge against his left knee caught his attention just as the first course was served. "Sit up straight," his grandfather hissed just loud enough for him to hear.  
  
Blaine adjusted his posture and tried to focus on the plate in front of him. He noticed a small wine stain near his dinner fork, and he moved his glass to cover it. He felt numb, barely noticing that the conversation had been redirected to him as he fiddled with his silverware.  
  
"You should really get some sun while you're here," Mrs. Smethurst said. "You simply cannot go back to New York as pale as you arrived, Mr. Anderson. You could borrow our sail boat, couldn't he, John?"  
  
"Of course," Mr. Smethurst replied. "I'll leave word at the front desk."  
  
"Thank you," Blaine said as he looked up from the linen tablecloth. He nodded to Mr. Smethurst, but his gaze landed just over his shoulder upon the most peculiar looking man he'd ever seen. He was seated a few tables away and seemed to be just a few inches taller than Blaine, with a prominent profile, but something almost delicate about him, even if he carried himself with a deeply masculine air. His head was held high as he waited for the fish course to arrive, and his posture didn't waver as he ate his meal.  
  
Blaine watched him through two courses before leaning forward and whispering, "Grandfather, who is the young man sitting with the Barrows? I haven't seen him before."  
  
Dr. Anderson looked up from his plate, fork halfway to his lips, a bit of sauce caught in his thick mustache, and glanced over at the table Blaine had referenced. "Oh, he's just the son of some engineer. Hummel something or other. I think his father works for Mr. Edison. Why do you ask, my boy?"  
  
"No reason," Blaine said, unsure himself why he'd felt so intrigued by a young man he'd only seen from across the room. "He looks to be about my age, maybe a little younger. Perhaps I should ask him to join us tomorrow for golf."  
  
"I don't think that wise, Blaine. You don't need to impress his family. He's no one of importance."  
  
"That may be," Blaine replied, "but I'm sure he'd be grateful for some company his own age. The Barrows look like they have one foot in the grave each."  
  
"Blaine!" Dr. Anderson snapped. "It's rude to say such things in public."  
  
"No one heard me," he muttered under his breath.  
  
"Don't talk back, boy," his grandfather said quietly, a tight smile still etched deeply on his face as he tried to look jovial for their dinner companions.  
  
Blaine glanced over at the young man again, following his movements with his eyes, watching him dab the corners of his mouth with a napkin and pushing his chair back. He rose elegantly and bowed to the Barrows before resting an affectionate hand on the shoulder of the gentleman to his right. Must be his father, Blaine decided.  
  
Before the young man could escape his gaze, Blaine stood up and excused himself from the table, thanking the Smethursts for their hospitality and assuring his grandfather he would be home at a respectable hour.  
  
"Billiards are an acceptable hobby, young man, but not until the wee hours of the morning."  
  
"Yes, sir," Blaine replied as he felt his grandfather's hand close around his sleeve.  
  
"And tomorrow you will stay and meet some of the families, Blaine. No excuses."  
  
His grandfather's eyes were steely gray as he glared up at Blaine, and Blaine could see this was a battle he would have to concede if he wished to catch up to the young man who had captured his attention.  
  
"You have my word," he said and tugged his arm free. His grandfather's eyes narrowed, but he let him go, and Blaine hurried to catch up with his prey.  
  
Thankfully the boy hadn't gotten too far. He was standing at the bottom of the steps leading to the dining room, gazing up at the gold-leafed dome of the rotunda, taking in the intricate murals and designs adorning the ceiling that had fascinated Blaine earlier in the evening.  
  
"Exquisite work, isn't it?" Blaine asked.  
  
The boy was startled out of his reverie at Blaine's words. When he made eye contact, a warm smile lit up his handsome face.  
  
When he didn't speak, Blaine held out his right hand in greeting and said, "I'm Blaine Anderson."  
  
"Kurt," the boy said, taking his hand in a firm grip. "Hummel."  
  
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hummel."  
  
Blaine couldn't help himself. He was grinning broadly and had still not let go of Kurt's hand.  
  
"Likewise," Kurt said, seeming reluctant to pull his own hand away when Blaine finally released him.  
  
"I don't suppose you're free for a game of billiards," Blaine said, hoping desperately Kurt's obligations for the evening were as free as his own.  
  
"I'm not much of a billiards player," Kurt said, casting his gaze downward.  
  
"I never said I was any good myself," Blaine lied. In fact, he was quite adept, having hustled money from most of his friends at one point or another. He just couldn't bear the thought of not speaking to Kurt for a bit longer. The way the electric lights accented the hint of green in Kurt's eyes made Blaine feel dizzy with anticipation. He burned with need to know this young man better.  
  
"Thank you for the invitation," Kurt said, "but I was thinking of taking a walk through the orange groves. It's such a nice night out and the blossoms smell delicious. It's my favorite part of the hotel."  
  
Blaine tried to hide his disappointment behind a tight smile as he said, "The scent is quite lovely. I hope you enjoy yourself."  
  
And then, Kurt's voice, so quiet he almost missed it, said, "You're welcome to join me."  
  
"Gladly," Blaine said, beaming at him and fighting the ridiculous urge to offer him his arm as the two headed down the back stairs and through the carriage way to the groves.  
  
The scent of orange blossoms tickled Blaine's nose for the second time that day, but somehow he thought, this moment would be seared into his memory for years to come. He glanced over at Kurt, his profile even more stunning in the moonlight. A slight chill had settled in after sunset, and when Kurt shivered, Blaine wished he had a cape or overcoat to offer him.  
  
"So tell me about yourself, Kurt," Blaine said. "Where are you from?"  
  
"Oh, I'm not very interesting," Kurt said. He fidgeted with his hands, pulling on his long fingers and twisting them like he was trying to pull the skin from the bone. Blaine wondered if he realized quite how exquisite he was when he was nervous.  
  
"I doubt you're as dull as all that. Tell me about your family. Anything."  
  
The man turned his head to face Blaine, a look of wonder and surprise making his youthful face look even younger, as if he couldn't believe anyone would want to know anything about him, let alone someone like Blaine. Perhaps no one had bothered to ask. The type of people who traveled in Blaine's social circle didn't bother getting to know anyone whose name wasn't immediately recognizable from the New York Social Register, and with Kurt and his father being new on the scene, it was entirely plausible that no one had even bothered to introduce themselves beyond the required pleasantries.  
  
"Well, my father works for Edison Illuminating Company in New York," Kurt said, the pride he felt for his father evident in his broad smile. "He's working with a man by the name of Henry Ford on a gasoline-powered vehicle. Very revolutionary."  
  
"So you're working class, then. How did you end up here?"  
  
Kurt's posture changed at that. Blaine could see he was a proud man, despite his social standing, and perhaps Kurt wanted more than his meager beginnings might have offered him. Blaine's heart ached to tell him the life of luxury wasn't always what it appeared like on the surface. Living in a gilded cage was still living in a cage.  
  
"I meant no disrespect, Kurt. It's just that this is a pretty elite place to be. You have to be on the Social Register to even get invited to stay here, and then there's the cost. I doubt that working as an engineer affords your family that kind of status." He stepped in front of Kurt and tried to catch his gaze. He needed Kurt to know status held no bearing with him. "Even if it's for such a distinguished gentleman as Mr. Edison."  
  
"They installed the electric lighting on this place, you know."  
  
Blaine smirked as Kurt's expression softened again. He hadn't lost the possibility of friendship yet. "I heard something about that, yes."  
  
"My father was a foreman here. Showed the staff how to run the dynamo."  
  
He was still trying to prove something to Blaine, though, and Blaine needed him to know it wasn't necessary.  
  
"Kurt, I'm not judging you. I'm just making conversation. I'd like to get to know you."  
  
Kurt smiled at that. "Forgive me," he said. "I'm so used to defending myself, it's sort of become habit."  
  
"Against?"  
  
"Friends, family…" He paused, glancing around at their opulent surroundings and gesturing with a small wave of his hand, before adding, "society."  
  
Blaine nodded. He knew exactly what Kurt meant. Status mattered very little when it came to societal expectations. They existed at all levels. Money didn't make you immune any more than the lack of money did. Blaine had spent his life upholding his parents' expectations and hiding his true self from the world. He hadn't felt free to be himself since university, and even then, he knew that his father's spies lived in the walls and reported back should he ever step a toe out of line.  
  
When his brother, Cooper, enrolled in medical school in 1890, Blaine's father took to mentoring him, rather than pushing Blaine into the family business. Blaine was set free, to an extent. He was allowed to pursue his own dreams of being an artist and poet so long as he eventually made a smart match and married well.  
  
"My mother died last spring," Kurt said. "My father's been melancholy for so long, Mr. Ford thought it might be nice if he got away for a while. He wrote a few letters, and well, here we are: the working-class Hummels, living the high life."  
  
"Or at least in close proximity to it," Blaine said.  
  
Kurt raised a questioning eyebrow at him, but didn't comment. "What about you, Mr. Anderson?" Kurt asked. "Where are you from?"  
  
"Please, call me Blaine, and I'm from New York as well," he said. "My father's a doctor, like my grandfather. Both named Andrew."  
  
"Your father didn't want another doctor named Andrew in the family?"  
  
"My older brother, Andrew – although, we call him Cooper – took that role. So I'm off the hook." He bowed deeply, an exaggerated smile on his lips. "Blaine Devon Anderson, philanderer and playboy, at your service."  
  
Kurt laughed, his eyes twinkling brightly, and Blaine realized he wanted to kiss him. But as he couldn't be sure of Kurt's predilections and they were still in a public place, he refrained from acting on the impulse.  
  
"So you're not married?" Kurt asked when his laughter subsided.  
  
"No, and no desire to," Blaine said, leaning in to whisper in Kurt's ear, "but don't tell my mother. She thinks I'm simply being picky."  
  
"Your secret is safe with me," Kurt said.  
  
"What about you?"  
  
"Me?"  
  
"Are you fitted with a ball and chain yet, Kurt?" Blaine asked, pulling a cigarette case from the pocket of his waistcoat. He offered one to Kurt, and he lit both off the same match.  
  
"Betrothed," Kurt said, biting the cigarette between his teeth. He pulled on the chain of his watch, tugging it out of his pocket to open it, revealing the photo of a pretty girl with dark eyes and thick, glossy hair. "Her name is Rachel."  
  
"She's lovely," Blaine said.  
  
"I've known her since we were children," Kurt said, gazing down at her image before closing his watch and returning to his pocket. "Her father died around the same time my mother did. So I figured someone has to take care of her and her mother."  
  
"You both look so young," Blaine said.  
  
Kurt looked up sharply, his eyes narrowed. "I'm nineteen," he said. "I'll be twenty in September."  
  
"Well, that's something, I guess."  
  
Blaine tilted his head back and gazed at the stars; they seemed brighter here than in New York. He watched the smoke from his cigarette curl around him and disappear into the dark, and the harsh scent of tobacco overwhelmed him for the moment. He could just see the tip of Kurt's cigarette glowing in his periphery and wondered what Kurt smelled like underneath the smoke.  
  
"They seem brighter, don't they?" Kurt asked, as if he could read Blaine's thoughts.  
  
"I wonder why that is," Blaine said, grateful for the subject change. He had no desire to divulge the reasons why he wasn't betrothed to his own childhood sweetheart or, worse still, some empty-headed socialite.  
  
"Lights. Coal dust," Kurt said. "Blocks out the sun, the stars. The fresh air."  
  
Blaine inhaled deeply. The scent of orange blossoms was almost overpowering in the dark, the acrid smoke from their cigarettes polluting the sweetness, but the air did seem cleaner than it did in New York, even if it was excessively humid here. He could feel his hair curling and growing bushier even underneath the weight of his expensive pomade. Funny how one could feel so free and so weighed down all at once. Blaine suddenly felt the weight of his life closing in on him and he wanted a drink, something to dull the incessant buzzing of his thoughts and anchor him back to earth, something to level him off and keep him from floating away and taking Kurt with him.  
  
"Want to go back inside?" Blaine asked. "We could get a drink. Play cards. I'm sure the bar has mostly cleared out by now. The ladies will all be in the parlor gossiping. No mindless chatter to be had."  
  
Kurt looked as if he were considering it for a moment before he dropped his cigarette and ground it beneath his shoe, leaving a small divot in the earth.  
  
"I really should get back to my father. He's in poor health and I need to make sure he made it back to our rooms safely."  
  
"The staff will look after him," Blaine said. He cringed at his desperate tone, but he didn't want Kurt to leave, so he made no apologies.  
  
"I really should get back."  
  
Blaine sighed and stubbed his cigarette against a tree, tossing it on the ground once it was out.  
  
"Meet me tomorrow, then. My grandfather and I are playing golf with some of his colleagues from the hospital in the morning, but after I thought I'd go sailing. I'd love some company, especially someone as intriguing as yourself, Mr. Hummel."  
  
"Kurt."  
  
"Kurt," Blaine said, digging in his heels beneath him so he didn't step forward and kiss Kurt's lush, pouting lips. "Will you go sailing with me?"  
  
"Blaine, I–"  
  
"You can't leave me with only my dull grandfather and his pretentious cronies for company. Help a fellow out."  
  
"I suppose it would be rude of me to decline such a gracious invitation," Kurt said. "Especially when I barely know anyone here."  
  
"Then it's settled," Blaine said, slapping Kurt on the back. It was the only contact he dared make under the circumstances. "I'll meet you in the lobby around noon. We can have lunch."  
  
"On one condition," Kurt said, his expression suddenly playful.  
  
"Anything," Blaine breathed, suddenly captivated and wanting more than anything to keep Kurt looking at him exactly like that.  
  
"You let me prepare us a picnic lunch so we can eat on the beach," Kurt said. "I haven't been out there yet and I've heard it's positively decadent."  
  
"Indeed it is," Blaine replied, unable to hide his amusement.  
  
They stared at each other for a moment, Kurt looking like perhaps he wanted to say something else about the beach, the decadence of the evening itself, or even to tell Blaine he wasn't the type of boy that Blaine had hoped he was, but instead Kurt defied all expectation, bowed his head to Blaine and simply said, "Good evening."  
  
"Good evening," Blaine replied and watched as Kurt headed back toward the hotel, head held high and his posture unfailing. He was perfection in true life, and it made Blaine's heart ache unexpectedly.  
  
Blaine didn't want to return to his grandfather's house, so he waited a few minutes under the stars in the chill of the January night before following the path Kurt had taken to the hotel. He climbed the stairs and crossed the lobby to the double doors leading to the billiard room, idly musing that he could perhaps find a few men to convince to play a game or two.


	2. Chapter 2

Kurt ducked behind a tree and stood there for a moment, willing his heartbeat to slow from the rapid tempo it had begun beating out the moment Blaine had introduced himself in the lobby. His breathing came in short bursts and his palms were damp with sweat.

It wasn't rare for Kurt to be intrigued by a person of society; it had happened to him before, but it was unnerving to be so utterly fixated on a person whom he had just met — and a young man at that. What about Blaine Anderson had him so captivated?

Kurt stayed there, hidden in the shadows, watching Blaine for a moment. Even in the dark, he could see that Blaine's eyes lingered on the path where Kurt had retreated, and his posture shrunk ever so slightly once he was alone. As Kurt watched, Blaine tilted his head back and inhaled deeply, hands shoved far down into his pockets. Distance prevented certainty, but to Kurt's gaze it appeared as though a smile of contentment was playing across Blaine's lips.

It made Kurt smile as well. He could still imagine the soft twinkle in Blaine's eyes as they had talked, the moonlight reflected in the sheen of his carefully styled hair. It was new and frightening, but somehow, it was also as if Kurt was truly seeing the world for the first time, his heart unfurling before him.

He simply wanted to stand on the spot and stare at Blaine for as long as his conscience would permit, but Blaine didn't dally for long. Soon his long, confident strides, which made him look taller than his stature should have allowed, were carrying him swiftly in Kurt's direction. Kurt pressed his body tightly against the tree, hoping he would blend further into the shadows and avoid being seen as Blaine made his way back through the carriage way and up the back stairs into the lobby.

When he was sure Blaine had gone, he stepped out from behind the tree and dusted his waistcoat off with his hands, hoping he hadn't stained the white silk.

When he reentered the hotel, the vast lobby looked different somehow, as if the gold shone more brightly and the deep mahogany of the wood had been freshly polished. It was as if everything had changed in the span of twenty minutes, and yet he knew that couldn't be true.

As Kurt made his way back to the fourth floor suite he shared with his father, he took in the distinct beauty of the hotel, winding his way down corridors he hadn't yet used and admiring the craftsmanship of every detail.

He noticed that the lower floors seemed to have more artwork on the walls, and the upper corridors were slightly narrower and the air was more stifling than it was below, but Kurt didn't care. He loved this place. It represented everything he wanted out of life — money, influence, prestige, affluence, power — everything Blaine Anderson had.

Still, he couldn't help but notice that the division of class in the hotel paralleled the inequities of the real world. Such gorgeous artwork and detail, all color and light, was only to be viewed and admired. If one wanted to actually live amid the beauty itself, a higher price must be paid.

Kurt wondered if that was why he had felt so drawn to Blaine, with his dark hair and olive-toned skin and those wide, amber-colored eyes that had twinkled in the glow of the lobby lights earlier. He was a representation, that was all. He was the personification of something that Kurt had desired his entire life, and Blaine was welcoming him into it with open arms. What he was feeling had nothing to do with the way his lips seemed to curl around his cigarette as if he were caressing a lover, and absolutely nothing at all do with the way Kurt couldn't stop picturing it.

He tried to shove his unwanted thoughts into the same dark corner of his mind where he hid the memories of other men's smiles and the stirrings he felt while reading _The Portrait of Dorian Gray_. He had no desire to embarrass his father by acting on a silly, childish and completely inappropriate impulse. Blaine had simply shown him a kindness, knowing he was new among this crowd, and he should be grateful; not mooning over the man like a besotted schoolgirl. He envied the man's position in society; nothing more.

Besides, there was so much here to occupy his thoughts anyway.

When Kurt had arrived in St. Augustine just three days ago, he had rapidly fallen in love with the lavish lifestyle of the hotel's guests and the simple quaintness of the town and its people. A carriage had met them at the station, and Kurt was elated. It all felt so regal, so unlike everything to which he was accustomed.

Back in New York, he and his father had recently landed themselves just on the cusp of this society thanks to Burt's connections with Mr. Edison's growing company. But they were still outsiders looking in, and Kurt wanted to change that.

Kurt had grown up wanting for nothing of the basics; he had food on the table each night and clothes on his back, but the finer things continued to elude him. He wanted so much more.

And the Ponce, with its gold-leaf murals and ornate wood carvings had him enraptured. He never wanted to leave, especially not now that he had a way in, a person to ease his connections to the more wealthy families. He knew who Blaine Anderson was; he had memorized every name on the New York Social Register almost as soon as he could read. The Anderson home on 38th Street was one of Kurt's favorites. As much as he loved the larger, more lavish mansions of the Carnegies, Vanderbilts and Rockefellers — even Mr. Flagler's home was immense — the slightly smaller homes that lined the streets just off Fifth Avenue were where Kurt aspired to be.

No, this trip was fate. Kurt knew he was meant to be here, and he intended to make the most of it.

He slowly made his way down the second floor corridor and stopped to look at every piece of artwork along the way, trying desperately to soak it all in, memorize every detail.

Lingering on the landing to the third floor, he found himself in front of a large painting of a Grecian woman, draped in pink satin and surrounded by lush topiary. It had quickly become his favorite because the angle of her brow and the soft smile on her lips reminded Kurt of his mother. He longed to climb into the painting and tell her about his good fortune, about the long train ride in an actual Pullman car. He would tell her about all the important connections he was making and how he hoped to design gowns for some of these women next season. She would pet his hair and tell him how proud she was of her talented son, and he would show her his sketches and read passages from their favorite books, and everything would be as it was.

The false memory hurt, and his heart hung heavy in the knowledge of what had transpired to get them here, to this place, to give him the chance to be received in the sitting rooms of New York society — her death.

Kurt was well aware how misfortune had shaped his life, and so he never allowed himself the indulgence of happiness for too long. His mother had represented the last hope he had of becoming more than he had been born to, until this trip. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was sure to come along soon and spoil it all. That was always the way, wasn't it? The instant he had a moment's joy, it was snatched from him like a spiteful sibling stealing his favorite toy.

When he was six, he had just made his first friend in school when his father announced they were leaving Ohio for New York. That was where all the good jobs were for an engineer; so they left. And of course, when Kurt announced he wanted to apprentice with a tailor, his father looked so disappointed that his son didn't want to be a mechanic or inventor, and they never spoke of it directly. Kurt suspected his mother had something to do with Burt's eventual concession, allowing his son to pursue his dream at the expense of his pride. In fact, Kurt had just gotten an apprenticeship with a master tailor when his mother fell ill.

Consumption wasn't rare, but it was had still been unexpected in someone as vivacious as Elizabeth Hummel, and Kurt's father was in denial for much of the time she was bedridden.

Kurt sighed and smiled at the woman in the painting. He resisted the urge to say goodnight to her, and made his way back to his room, taking the last flight of stairs slowly, as he tried to compose himself.

He opened the door to find his father at the desk in the sitting room, writing a letter. Burt Hummel looked more at-ease than he had in months, and Kurt hoped that wouldn't change when they returned to New York.

When Elizabeth had first taken sick, Burt couldn't cope with the looming specter of her failing health, so he had thrown himself into his work, leaving Kurt, himself only 17 years old at the time, to look after his ailing mother. When she passed peacefully in her sleep just nine months ago, Burt fell into a deep depression that forced him only deeper into his work. So Kurt was happy to see him looking like a bit of his old demeanor had returned.

"Good evening, Kurt," his father greeted him. "How was your stroll?"

"It was nice," Kurt replied. "I think I made a business connection."

His father's pen stilled and he glanced up over the edge of his spectacles at his son. "Oh?" he inquired. Removing his reading glasses, Burt waited for his son to elaborate, raising an eyebrow in a manner that Kurt had inherited. If one were to erase the years from Burt's friendly features, there was a strong resemblance between them, and even more so these days given that Burt's usually full face had slowly thinned over the past few months. Even so, he had lost none of his warmth, and he looked genuinely happy to see his son in a good mood.

"Yes, sir. Blaine Anderson," he said. "He invited me sailing tomorrow."

"Dr. Anderson's grandson," Burt said, nodding slowly. "The Barrows were talking about him. I hear he's staying the season to find a young woman to take as a wife."

"He didn't mention that," Kurt said, swallowing heavily. Blaine hadn't said anything of the sort, even when Kurt had revealed his engagement to Rachel, but he wasn't surprised. It wasn't uncommon for a man of Blaine's age and standing to be in search of a match, but it hurt more than Kurt expected. "He is a handsome man, though. I'm sure he'll have his pick of the eligible young ladies here."

"From what I hear, he's a bit of a cad," Burt said. "His mother is having a devil of a time getting him to face responsibility and settle down."

"Maybe he's just picky," Kurt said, repeating Blaine's words from earlier. "He has a right to be." He had no idea why he was defending this man to his father. He barely knew Blaine.

"He should be worried about fulfilling his obligations to his family," Burt said, the words stinging Kurt's heart. He knew his father was disappointed in his career choice, even if he never said it.

"Maybe he wants to marry for love," Kurt wondered aloud.

"The rich don't marry for love," Burt replied, returning to his letter. "I've tried to tell you that."

"I would imagine some do," Kurt said, loosening his tie and walking toward the bedroom. "Mr. Anderson struck me as the romantic type. Maybe he's different than the others."

Kurt hoped it was true. Something about Blaine seemed… special. Like maybe he could set the world spinning with just the warmth of his smile, or perhaps the sparkle in his honeyed eyes could light the night sky like the twinkle of a million stars.

"Maybe he's exactly like the others," Burt said.

Kurt stood in the doorway to the sitting room, his waistcoat only half unbuttoned as he felt his entire body tense up.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

His father's face softened.

"I just want you to be careful, Kurt. I know you think being a part of high society will solve all your problems, but I think you'll find for every woe you retire, you will find five more to take its place."

Kurt leaned on the door frame, considering his father's words.

"I'm only going sailing," Kurt said. "I don't think he's the second coming of the Lord Savior."

"Kurt, I won't have you saying such blasphemous things. If your mother, God rest her, knew what-"

"I'm sorry, Father," Kurt said. He wasn't religious himself, but his mother had been, and he wanted to honor her memory. "I only meant that I'm not expecting Blaine Anderson or anyone else to do the work for me. I will find my place in their world, but I'm going to do it on my own merit."

Burt stood up and walked over to his son, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. They both knew how important proper connections could be; when Mr. Ford had learned of Burt's situation, he had encouraged the men to take a trip, offering to set up something for them at a place they could scarcely afford and foot the bill, provided that when they returned both Hummel men would set to work helping him on his inventions.

"I just don't want you to get disappointed if people aren't what you think," Burt said.

"I won't," Kurt promised. "It's just nice to have a friend, and you know as well as I do that you have to make friends with these people if you want to be a part of it all."

He looked down at the buttons of his waistcoat, noting a few threads poking out of one buttonhole. He'd need to mend it before dinner the next night. He had only one suit formal enough for dinner at the Ponce, and it had been a hand-me-down from Rachel's father's closet. He'd had to tailor it extensively just to get it to fit right, and he couldn't afford to have it fall apart now.

"I know you've been lonely since your mother died," Burt said. "And with Rachel back in New York, I'm happy you have someone close to you own age to talk to. Just… be careful, son. Not everyone in this world is as kind-hearted as you."

"You don't think I know that?" Kurt said, the words feeling like poison on his lips. He'd been tormented and teased his entire life, and when he wasn't being attacked by his classmates for his high-pitched voice or his affinity for delicate things, he was looking for a way out — a way to prove them all wrong — and his father knew it.

Burt released a heavy, ragged breath. He knew Kurt was finished discussing the matter, and Kurt was grateful. He gave his father a half-hearted smile as he retreated to his room to resumed undressing, his thoughts wandering back to Blaine.

He wondered if the young bachelor truly was being picky or if he had other reasons for not being married at his age. He was obviously a few years older than Kurt and knew what was expected of him. Perhaps he simply enjoyed being a bachelor. Kurt could understand that; there were times he wished he hadn't proposed marriage to Rachel. Maybe he'd be freer that way, able to travel and see the famous paintings and monuments of Europe. He could easily live off what he made sketching while he tried to make his way through the world, and then maybe one day he could settle down and start his own business designing gowns or working as a personal tailor to someone high up in society.

But he had promised Rachel, and he did love her. He didn't think he could stand watching her lose her place in society if she never married. So they had promised each other and planned. Kurt would marry Rachel and she would use her position to secure him a job with a tailor. Kurt would learn from the best, and as a married woman, Rachel would be allowed to do as she pleased, mostly.

"… letter from Rachel."

Kurt shook his head, realizing he had been daydreaming.

"I beg your pardon?" Kurt called.

He turned to see his father in the doorway.

"I said, you have a letter from Rachel," his father repeated, gesturing over his left shoulder. "It's on the desk. I'm going to retire for the evening."

"Good night," Kurt said, and watched his father cross the dimly lit sitting room. When he heard the door to his father's room click shut, he went to the desk and retrieved Rachel's letter. He held it to his nose, inhaling the faint scent of Rachel's perfume, the familiar sweetness reminding him of her warm brown eyes and bright, cheery smile. She would like Blaine. Maybe she already knew him. Kurt tore into the letter excitedly. He unfolded the thick paper and saw Rachel's familiar looping script.

_My Dearest Kurt,_

_It seems like weeks since I last saw you. Mother says I shouldn't tell you I miss you in my very first letter, but I don't care. I miss you, and I know that you miss me._

_Oh that reminds me, I saw a gorgeous watercolor silk yesterday in a shop window and thought of you. I just know you would have a dozen designs for me by midday with hats and gloves to match._

_I hope your father is feeling better and the sunshine is bringing some color back to his face. See that he eats his fill of the decadent food, and I promise to help you let out his trousers upon your return._

_I look forward to your first letter but will keep writing you each day until I receive it – even if mother chastises me for being too forward. If I can't write my best friend and fiancé, then who can I write?_

_Yours,_   
_Rachel_

He folded the letter and returned it to its jasmine-scented envelope. He was lucky to be marrying his oldest and dearest friend, even if she was a tad dramatic.

When they had moved to New York in Kurt's childhood, he was promised a better life, but Rachel Berry had been the only one to befriend him. Even so, he and Rachel — whose Jewish heritage subjected her family to scrutiny despite being on the social register — were teased mercilessly by their wealthier and more established classmates.

By the time they left school, though, Rachel had become an accomplished young singer who frequently got invited to posh social gatherings in New York. Although it didn't matter to her or Kurt, they both knew Rachel was often invited simply to share her voice with the guests. Her vocal talents were lauded by people who could barely tolerate Rachel otherwise, and she knew it. Kurt admired her for how little it seemed to bother her, and he appreciate that once she and Kurt had become betrothed, he was able to accompany her to the gatherings, designing elaborate gowns for her that were beginning to draw some attention. It wasn't perfect, but it was a foot in the door.

As he turned Rachel's letter over in his hands, Kurt longed to return to New York and set to work dressing her for the spring season. He had so many ideas inspired by his trip to Florida.

He pulled out a sheet of ivory paper and took the lid off the ink, dipping the tip of his pen in the well.

_My Darling,_

_I miss you as well. Tell your mother I was not at all scandalized by your forwardness, and I'll still have your hand._

_Florida is surprisingly hot for early January. You'd love the smell of the orange blossoms in the evening, and the night-blooming jasmine – ah Heaven! My only regret is that you are not here to share it with me, my love. The gowns are exquisite, but I could design better, and you would put the hotel's soloist to shame._

_I'm going sailing tomorrow with Mr. Blaine Anderson (son of Dr. Anderson on 38th). Do you know him? He could be a good connection — his grandfather is Mr. Flagler's dear friend. I'll find out all I can and share the details. I'm sure I'll receive another letter from you before you receive this, but know I'm thinking of you always and will write as often as I can._

_Yours affectionately,  
Kurt_

Kurt folded the letter and placed it on the table to post in the morning before checking the fire to make sure it was low enough to leave unattended and retreating to his room.

That night, he slept fitfully, his mind a torrent of thoughts of amber and honey beneath rolling waves of ebony curls scented with the soft breeze between the orange trees. By next morning at breakfast, Kurt's mind was spinning, wondering if he had imagined it all.

"What do you know of Blaine Anderson?" Kurt asked Mrs. Barrow, hoping he sounded casual even as he felt a keen anticipation tightening in his chest. He took a deep breath and smiled at her pleasantly as he waited for her response.

"I hear his mother sent him here to find a wife. I suspect he'll be engaged before the season's over," she said.

"That quickly?"

"Oh, a handsome man like that?" she said, laughing at Kurt's question. "I'm surprised he's lasted this long. He was all the young ladies could talk about last night after dinner."

"I heard he's exceedingly picky," Kurt said.

"I think perhaps he's a bit _Bohemian_ ," Mr. Barrow sneered.

That piqued Kurt's interest. "How so?"

"That's not appropriate discussion in front of the ladies," Mr. Barrow replied, spearing a bite of ham on his fork.

Kurt tried to hide his frustration behind his coffee cup as he sipped. His belly felt like an upset beehive on the inside, and black coffee was the only thing he could stomach.

"I hear his grandfather is a close, personal friend of Mr. Flagler," Mrs. Barrow offered.

"He is," Mr. Barrow replied. "Andrew Anderson used to own the very land this hotel is standing on."

"And I heard," Mrs. Barrow gushed, gripping Kurt's sleeve dramatically, "that our young Mr. Anderson might be considering Lucy Fabray. Can't you just imagine the gorgeous hazel-green eyes on their babies?" She clapped a hand to her chest and sighed.

"Emily!"

"Oh, I'm finished, John," she said to her husband. "I'll stop scandalizing the table with talk of such horrible things as _eye color_."

Emily Barrow had that keen knack for using her words to cut through her husband without compromising her ladylike poise or her gentle smile. Kurt resisted the urge to laugh and instead whispered conspiratorially, "I am meeting 'our young Mr. Anderson' for sailing later. I shall unearth all the good gossip for you, my dear Mrs. Barrow."

Kurt could hear Burt's low chuckle over Mr. Barrow's disapproving grumbles. He knew his father didn't care about gossip, but he genuinely enjoyed seeing John Barrow squirm. The two had never gotten along, Mr. Barrow making it clear he was unhappy about being seated with the Hummels for the entirety of the season, but Kurt could tell from looking around the dining room on a regular basis that there wasn't much rhyme or reason to the seating arrangements at the tables in their section. It was clear that this was merely where they placed all the guests who had the less expensive rooms. John Barrow was fooling no one. Everyone knew he had lost most of his fortune in the stock market two years ago, but he liked to pretend he still had the same place among high society he had always held.

The conversation waned after that, Mr. Barrow tossing sharp looks at his wife every few minutes while she prattled on about the comings and goings of various guests. Kurt pretended to listen, but his eyes roved the dining room for a glimpse of Blaine. He knew that the Andersons were playing golf, and with Dr. Anderson living next door, it was unlikely that they would take their breakfast at the hotel, but that didn't stop him from hoping.

The string quartet playing in the balcony started a new song that drew Kurt's attention immediately. It felt jubilant and optimistic, and it perfectly mimicked his mood. The soaring notes danced around in his head as he sipped his coffee. It was as if that morning were a fresh beginning on Kurt's life, and he couldn't quite pinpoint why. His mother would have called it a sign from the heavens, a signal that Kurt should let the light in, bask in its warmth and allow the sun to shine on him. It felt like forever since he had let himself indulge like that. When had something so ordinary started to feel like an indulgence?

He was momentarily struck with the thought that Blaine should hear this piece. Should he ask the quartet what it was? He and Blaine hadn't even discussed music; he just had a feeling the man would enjoy it.

"Kurt, I'm going for a walk," Burt said when the Barrows had finally left and the coffee had gone cold. "Did you want to join me?"

He was so lost in the melody that he had missed the Barrows' exit as well as the waiter's final pass with fresh coffee. He looked down at the dregs in his cup and decided he would have to make do with just the one cup today.

"I think I'd rather read my book," he said. "You go on ahead, and I'll catch up with you before dinner."

Burt smiled warmly and nodded before turning to go. Kurt watched him retreat through the dining room entrance and as he got farther away, he grew smaller and smaller until he disappeared around a corner.

As a child, Kurt had always been fascinated by how large his father seemed, a giant who could protect him from the world, but as he himself grew taller, Kurt realized his father was mere mortal and only of average build. It was like watching someone walk slowly away from you toward the horizon, until they gradually slipped away. His mother had done that — seemed larger than life and then not, until she was but a speck on the horizon and then one day… gone.

He glanced out the brightly lit stained-glass windows to his right, the beauty of the day beckoning him to befriend it, and suddenly had an idea. Kurt craned his neck, hoping to spot a waiter or other attendant. There were several milling about, waiting for tables to clear, but none nearby, and it wasn't really appropriate for Kurt to approach them. His eyes raked the soiled table, wondering if he could make a sound loud enough to attract attention — or perhaps if he dropped a knife. Last night at dinner a woman two tables over had dropped a spoon and three waiters had rushed to her side: one to replace the spoon, another to clean up any mess and a third to ask her if she needed anything else.

Just as his hand closed around a dirty butter knife, their waiter stopped at a neighboring table to drop off a fresh pot of coffee. When he passed close enough, Kurt gestured for him to stop.

"Yes, Mr. Hummel?" he asked, not making direct eye contact. It still unnerved Kurt, the extreme formality of the hotel staff, but he tried not to let it show.

"I was wondering if there was a way for me to get some things from the kitchen for a picnic lunch," he said. "Some bread and cheese perhaps – a little bit of wine?"

"I'm not sure, sir. I'll talk to the maître d' and send word to your room," the waiter said.

"Thank you," Kurt replied. He pushed his chair away from the table and tossed his napkin next to his plate. He straightened his checked waistcoat and stretched his legs, feeling stiff from sitting so long. It was still quite early and he needed to find something to occupy his time before meeting up with Blaine, otherwise his own thoughts – and nerves – would drive him absolutely mad.

The choice was made for him, however, when he spotted a bellhop carrying a large, framed painting of a marsh scene out of the parlor. He followed a plump matron up the stairs toward the guest rooms and disappeared out of sight.

Kurt took a right out of the dining room toward the brightly lit parlor and found that several of the hotel's artists had displayed their work in the room's open space. The contrast of newly realized artwork with the luxurious murals of the ceilings was overwhelming, as was the flurry of activity in the room's three sections.

The artists' studios at the Ponce were one of the highlights of visiting St. Augustine because several accomplished painters had taken up residence there and on Friday evenings opened their studios for guests to peruse and purchase one-of-a-kind pieces. But during the day, the artists displayed their artwork in the parlor, showing off their talents as well as their salesmanship.

Kurt stopped at the first grouping of paintings, a series of still lifes that looked as if they might jump from their canvases thanks to the realism in both color and light. He'd heard that Martin Heade's studies of flowers weren't to be missed. He assumed it best to start there and work his way through all of the displays until it was nearly time for him to meet Blaine.

As he approached, he noticed Mr. Heade was busy showing a painting to an older couple, both dressed in dark grey, and sharing the same pinched expression. Kurt didn't see them as the artistic type; he suspected they were buying art because it was the fashionable thing to do. He snorted to himself. People really didn't know what beauty they missed when they bypassed the arts in favor of impressing their friends.

Kurt crossed to the opposite side of the room to browse the paintings hung on the wall there — also Mr. Heade's — and stopped in front of a deeply colored canvas with a vibrant white flower sitting nestled on a blue velvet cloth. It looked as if he could reach through the frame and touch its lush petals. Kurt shoved his hands deeper into his pockets to resist the urge. He tilted his head to one side and studied the fine brush strokes, the lifelike highlights on the leaves and the deep azure of the velvet.

"It's gorgeous," he said to no one.

"Mr. Heade is a talented painter," a voice beside him said. Kurt startled at the sound, turning to find a man with a long, scraggly beard standing a few inches away, his attention steadfastly on the same painting that Kurt was studying. When Kurt didn't respond, the man continued in a muddled accent, "See the way the he paints every detail as if there were no other truth than that?"

Kurt looked back at the painting and considered the man's words. The painting was quite detailed, but it was this bearded man that intrigued him, rather than the painting itself.

"It's a magnolia, right?" Kurt asked. He had seen the white blossoms on the trees that lined some of the lawns in St. Augustine when they first arrived and had immediately inquired as to their name.

The bearded man nodded. "Did you know that magnolias are considered a symbol of beauty and perseverance?" he said. "The magnolia tree is actually an evergreen. It never completely sheds its leaves."

"It's so beautiful," Kurt said, "for something so resilient." Forgetting himself, he reached up as if he could feel the velvety petals of the white flower through the canvas and pulled his hand away at the last second.

"Well, why should the two be mutually exclusive?" the man asked. "Magnolias are a beautiful fragrant flower that can survive the extreme heat and unpredictable cold of the Florida climate. It's probably why they've been associated with nobility and dignity, even sweetness and a love of nature… all things that don't necessarily go together, but describe the bloom nonetheless."

Kurt took in the man's dress and noticed he was wearing a painter's smock of his own. "Are you a painter?" he asked.

"I am," the man responded. "Felix de Crano. I'm in studio number one."

"Mr. de Crano, I've heard your name mentioned. Your watercolors are the talk amongst the ladies at dinner."

"You're staying at the hotel, then."

"Yes, I am." He held out a hand. "I'm Kurt Hummel."

Mr. de Crano accepted Kurt's hand with a firm shake and returned his attention to the painting.

"Do you ever paint florals, Mr. de Crano?" Kurt asked.

"Please call me Felix," he said. "And I prefer landscapes, sometimes people… much less complex than flowers."

" _People_ are less complex than flowers?" Kurt said, raising an eyebrow.

"Some are, yes." Felix nodded at the grey couple talking to Mr. Heade and gave Kurt a knowing look.

"I see what you mean," Kurt said, stifling a laugh.

"Kurt Hummel, I like you," the artist said, grinning broadly and revealing a row of uneven, uncared for teeth. It ordinarily might have bothered him, but for whatever reason, Kurt was endeared to this man, and his haggard appearance only added to that. "Would you like to see my paintings?"

Kurt followed Mr. de Crano to his display and marveled at the volume of work this man had accumulated. His watercolors were of a simpler style than Mr. Heade's work, but nonetheless beautiful.

There were a dozen or more landscapes, the city's fort, the city gates, deep, romantic sunsets, the island and bay, moss-covered trees, orchards, birds. It was all there. He came to rest in front of a colorful painting of a street scene, the familiarity of which had already ingrained itself into Kurt's permanent memory.

"You like that one?" Felix asked.

Kurt nodded slowly, unwilling or unable to look away, he was unsure of which. The moss hanging on the trees, shading the heavily rutted dirt of King Street looked all at once foreign and exactly like home. The spire of the Cordova hotel could be seen in the distance peeking out from behind the thick greenery. Kurt could feel the shade of the canopy and smell the orange and magnolia blossoms as if he were standing right there.

It was the route they had taken from the train station four days ago, and Kurt was enthralled by every brush stroke.

"Sometimes what we see and what we're able to express through our art are so different and yet exactly the same, no?"

Kurt wasn't sure what the painter meant, but he nodded his agreement anyway. He didn't want to seem unsure or ignorant in front of this man, who so obviously had an incomparable talent.

"I wish I could paint what I see in such a manner," Kurt said.

"Are you an artist, my young Kurt?"

"I'd never insult a talent such as yourself by claiming the title," he said. "I design ladies dresses and sketch a little." He dismissed the notion that he was an artist with a wave of his hand and added, "What I do is nothing like this. This is… exquisite."

"It's but a dalliance. The frescoes of Europe… the _great_ painters? Those, my friend, are exquisite. I paint what I see; nothing more."

"You see as a genius sees," Kurt replied.

The painter snorted and waved off Kurt's compliment.

"Kurt, have you a steady hand?"

"I like to think so," Kurt said.

"Good, then you come to my studio tomorrow afternoon; I will teach you these things. We start just after lunch, yeah?"

"I… uh…"

"It's settled. Now you stay and watch me paint for a while. I need someone to tell me when I use too much yellow."

Kurt smiled. He didn't have anywhere to be for a while. What was the harm in watching this master work?

By the time Mr. de Crano dismissed Kurt, — and that's exactly what it was; he left no room for Kurt to argue — it was nearly time to meet Blaine, so Kurt went to his room to retrieve a book and set off for the lobby to wait.


	3. Chapter 3

Golf went as expected, and Blaine, feeling thoroughly chastised over his lack of athletic skill and an even greater lack of knowledge of medicine, wanted desperately to get cleaned up so he could be on time to meet Kurt in the hotel lobby.

He tried to ignore his grandfather's piercing gaze as he changed and headed out for the afternoon.

"Don't forget," came the admonishment as Blaine made his way downstairs, his grandfather's ever-present stout form reclining in his chair in the library, "we have dinner this evening and you _will_ be on time for drinks."

"Yes, grandfather," Blaine said. He tried to keep the annoyed tone out of his voice, but judging by his grandfather's sharp glare, he had not succeeded.

He hurried out of the house and across the street to the hotel. Taking the back entrance earned him peculiar looks from the hotel staff, but he didn't care. The idea of walking the long way around to make some sort of grand entrance made his skin crawl. He just wanted to get to Kurt.

"Excuse me," Blaine said to the bellboy waiting at the foot of the stairs, "can you tell me if Mr. Hummel has come down yet?"

"I'm not sure, sir. Perhaps you should inquire at the desk."

"Thank you," he said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. He glanced around the lobby, ducking between the carved wood columns and lush potted trees to see if he could spot Kurt's elegant stature. He smiled at a young woman and bowed in her direction when she made eye contact. If her coquettish smile and the way she hid behind her fan were any indication, Blaine's charms were in full effect. He hoped they would be of some use on Kurt.

Still not seeing his companion for the afternoon, he approached the front desk, where the assistant cashier, Mr. Greaves, was on duty.

"Good morning, Mr. Anderson. Will you be joining us for lunch?"

"Sorry, Greaves, but I have other plans – with one of your guests, actually. Mr. Hummel?"

"Mr. Burt Hummel is taking luncheon in the dining room, so I assume you mean the younger Mr. Hummel. He's in the courtyard." Greaves smiled as he pointed out the soaring double doors that led into the sunlit Spanish courtyard.

"Thank you," Blaine said, trying to hide his excitement as he stepped out into the warm afternoon.

There were several hotel guests taking their midday stroll along the loggias as a few of the older guests relaxed in chairs placed along the arching paths surrounding the terracotta fountain. A little girl with pale blonde hair, her parents nowhere in sight, played with a wooden toy dog in front of it. The courtyard seemed fairly empty compared to its usual buzz of activity, but it was lunch time after all.

The thick ivy clinging to the stark, gray concrete and coquina walls made the courtyard look less institutional and more relaxed. The palm trees still appeared odd to Blaine, the fronds looking fake and uncaring to him in the way the expansive leaves of maple trees never did. He had already grown fond of the canopy of magnolias in his grandfather's yard thanks to the soothing shade of them and the quiet whisper of the thick leaves in the morning breeze. Those felt more like real trees, and the rich, white blossoms that would soon weigh down the branches already smelled divine.

Blaine wandered the pathways, his eyes searching out a tall man with eyes like the sea. He wondered briefly if Kurt had changed his mind, decided Blaine had been too forward. Maybe he could sense Blaine's intentions and was horrified at the thought.

But then there he was.

Kurt was seated in the shade of a small palm, legs crossed like a child who was waiting for his nanny to read him a story, a fashionable straw hat perched on his head, as he read a small, worn-looking book. He was positively engrossed and neither saw nor heard Blaine approach.

"I was beginning to worry you'd changed your mind," Blaine said.

Kurt looked up, startled, and shielded his eyes from the midday sun. "Oh, not at all," he said. "It was just warmer reading out here in the sun than in the lobby."

"Then why are you in the shade?"

"Fair skin," Kurt said. "I freckle just like a girl."

"You look like a man to me," Blaine said before he could stop himself.

Kurt looked as if he were blushing, but maybe it was just a natural reaction to the combination of the slightly cool winter air with the too-bright sun.

"I just meant–"

"It's alright," Kurt said, standing up and dusting off his trousers. "It's just that I don't hear that very much. I get called Nancy boy and a dandy far too often for my own liking. It's rather nice to know I don't give off that impression to everyone I meet."

"I would never say such things about you," Blaine said. He'd heard those things about himself and knew what they implied.

"What are you reading?" he asked, looking down at the small, brown volume in Kurt's left hand.

"You'll laugh," Kurt said, casting his eyes down as he turned the book in his hands.

"No, I won't."

"Considering the conversation we just had, I think you just might," Kurt said. He held the book up for Blaine's inspection.

Blaine couldn't help himself; he laughed, loud and raucous. A matron in black several feet away turned and tutted sternly at the young men. Kurt, looking mortified, tipped his hat in apology and gave her a tight smile.

"I told you, you'd laugh," Kurt said under his breath.

"Indeed you did," Blaine replied, his laughter now down to a low chuckle. "But you have to admit, it is quite a coincidence. You might as well be reading Whitman."

" _The_ _Picture of Dorian Gray_ is a popular novel," Kurt said. "I hardly think it's cause for alarm, or a claim that I'm some… some aesthete."

"Oh, but I think you are," Blaine teased.

Kurt huffed, squaring his shoulders as he clenched his hands in fists. "I should strike you for saying such things, sir."

"And yet I don't think you shall," Blaine said, squinting into the sun and not making eye contact. "I'm a fan of Mr. Wilde myself. And Mr. Whitman." His tone now was matter-of-fact; the teasing quality was gone as he peered sideways at Kurt. He held out the book for Kurt to take, hoping he would accept it along with Blaine's implied meaning.

Kurt's jaw relaxed as he retrieved his novel from Blaine's grip, giving no indication that he'd picked up on the hidden undertone of Blaine's words. Why must these things be so difficult, Blaine wondered. If Kurt were a woman, he could simply make his intentions known and that would be that. He'd call on Kurt in the evenings, make his case to Kurt's father, and then they would be betrothed.

It was the first time in Blaine Anderson's life he had considered the idea of marriage. He nearly dropped his cigarette at the thought. It didn't even occur to him to be concerned that he was having these thoughts about a young man.

"Are we still on for sailing?" he asked, eager to change the subject. He took a quick inhale from his cigarette. "Or have I offended you too deeply to remain in my roguish company?"

"I am a man of my word, Mr. Anderson," Kurt said. He raised his chin proudly and challenged Blaine to declare otherwise. "In spite of your rude comments."

Blaine leaned in as close as he dared in mixed company and said, "I meant it as a compliment."

Kurt's eyes went wide, but his set jaw and rigid posture never faltered. He cleared his throat. "Uh, well then… thank you."

"Shall we?" Blaine gestured toward the hotel lobby and walked alongside Kurt as they reentered the building.

"I just need to grab our lunch from the kitchen," Kurt said. "I talked one of the waiters into preparing us something."

"Look at you," Blaine said. "Conspiring with the staff. Have I been such a wicked influence on you already?"

Blaine tried to ignore the flirtatious glint he imagined in Kurt's eyes, reasoning it must simply have been a trick of the light.

* * *

The brief trip to the beach wasn't much of a sail after all. The waves were small and the wind nearly non-existent. So the young men chose a small stretch of sand near the inlet where they could see the city skyline and look out over the ocean at the same time. Kurt unpacked their lunch on a blanket — borrowed discreetly from the hotel on Blaine's suggestion — and they sat while Kurt read aloud from _Dorian Gray_. Blaine leaned back on one elbow, enthralled with every syllable uttered from Kurt's full, pink lips.

"Don't you just love the way he writes of Dorian?" Kurt asked. "The way Mr. Wilde describes how the young man changed the painter's life. It's positively decadent."

"Read it to me again," Blaine said, rolling onto his back and gazing up at the fluffy white clouds against the bright blue sky, and not so much hearing the words as Kurt spoke them, but rather absorbing the young man's melodious voice as it carried him away into a fantasy he dared not indulge.

Kurt smiled at him and lowered his eyes to the book again, and read: _"The merely visible presence of this lad—for he seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty—his merely visible presence—ah! I wonder can you realize all that that means? Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school that is to have in it all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek."_

Setting the book carefully down in his lap, Kurt sighed. "Isn't that just delicious?"

For his part, Blaine had at some point during Kurt's oration, rolled back onto his side, propping his head on his right elbow to watch Kurt's profile haloed in the afternoon sun, and so when Kurt asked the question, Blaine replied emphatically, "Good enough to eat. Too bad we've just had luncheon."

Kurt laughed again, a full, hearty belly laugh that echoed across the beach and tickled Blaine's heartstrings. When he looked down at Blaine, his eyes were glinting brightly, all traces of green hidden beneath pure blue, and he wondered if Kurt knew the true meaning behind Mr. Wilde's words. He longed to tell him, confess his own feelings on the matter. But Blaine's gaze must have been intense or perhaps lingered a second too long because Kurt's expression hardened and he turned abruptly to face the water.

"I wish we could go swimming," Kurt said wistfully.

Blaine sat upright and grinned, welcoming the opportunity to perhaps ease the tension between them. "Who says we can't?"

"But we haven't the proper clothes," Kurt said, looking positively scandalized.

Blaine didn't care. Kurt's earlier words — well, Mr. Wilde's words on Kurt's lips anyway — had made Blaine bold and maybe a little careless.

"It's just us, Kurt," Blaine said, already unbuttoning his waistcoat. "Didn't you ever go swimming as a boy? It will be just like that."

"Yes, but I was usually alone or properly dressed."

"Oh, come on, Kurt," Blaine said, toeing off his shoes and working at the buttons on his trousers. "I did this with my school chums all the time. There's no one here."

Kurt looked around at the empty beach. It was probably a little cold for sunbathing today, and the water was surely freezing. He glanced up at Blaine, mouth open and likely preparing to offer another protest. It would be useless if he did; there was no way Kurt was going to dissuade him from his goal now.

"Last one to the shore is a stuck goose," Blaine called, and took off running, dropping his pants in the sand. He didn't look to see if Kurt followed, but he soon heard heavy footfalls behind him and turned to see a now shirtless Kurt, careening toward him, his hands fumbling with his trousers as he rushed into the water.

Kurt's face went nearly white with shock as his skin was assaulted by the icy fingers of the frigid water.

"Oh great mother in heaven!" Kurt exclaimed. "It's f-freezing."

"You'll get used to it," Blaine insisted through his own chattering teeth.

The sunlight glinted on Kurt's damp skin as he drew closer. Blaine could see his skin was dotted with gooseflesh and his nipples were peaked and rosy from the cold.

"I think I forgot it's still actually winter," Kurt said, his voice shaky both from laughter and the chill.

"One does seem to forget reality here, doesn't he?" Blaine leaned forward and brushed a strand of hair out of Kurt's eyes, wiping away a drip of water it left in its wake.

For a second Kurt looked like he might flee, his body now shaking visibly from the cold.

"Sorry," Blaine said, pulling his hand back with a jerk. "You don't want to get the salt water in your eyes. It burns."

"Oh," Kurt said, hugging his arms tight across his chest. "Thank you. I hadn't realized."

That gave Blaine a moment to collect himself, before he said, "Trust me, you only have to learn that lesson once. Either that or you get used to it."

"Are you used to it?" Kurt asked, his eyes darting to Blaine's forehead.

"Mostly."

"Oh, good. Because there's a drip…" he said, pointing to Blaine's forehead, but not making contact. Blaine leaned forward a little on instinct and felt his toes dig into the sand, the water lapping at their torsos in undulating waves. But then he lost his balance and nearly toppled into Kurt as a larger wave overcame them. He ducked under the water and surfaced just a few feet away from where they had been standing. When he began sputtering, teeth chattering from the cold and eyes burning from the briny water, Kurt laughed.

"You think that's funny, do you?" Blaine asked, sounding, even to his own ears, like a petulant child.

"Oh, it's quite humorous, from where I'm standing. You should see yourself – flopping around like a cat that's fallen in the rain barrel."

Blaine reached up to run his hand through his hair, shaking the water free from his curls. "Oh, you're going to pay for that, Mr. Hummel," he said as he slowly made his way closer to Kurt, slinking along like a predator stalking its prey.

And then a loud shriek pierced the otherwise silent beach as Blaine sloshed a great wave of water toward Kurt's face before toppling him into the waves and pulling him under.

When they surfaced, Kurt's arms were wrapped around Blaine's midsection, clinging for dear life as he tried to find his footing, and he was sputtering even harder than Blaine had before. He'd been caught completely off guard by Blaine's assault, and he looked as if he'd been out in the rain for hours, soaked clean through and grouchy as an old widow.

"Don't be cross with me," Blaine pouted. "You were teasing me too."

Kurt glared at him and released his grip, much to Blaine's displeasure. "I don't get cross," he said. "I get even."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise," Kurt said, ambling back up the beach in search of his dry clothes.

Blaine chuckled to himself as he watched Kurt silhouetted against the rust-colored sand. He looked like a Greek god in the midday sun, and yet, Kurt shied away from Blaine's affections at every turn. Had he misjudged?

If he had, at least he hadn't scared Kurt off entirely. Something to be said for the naivety of youth.

Perhaps he'd averted tragedy for the moment.

"Kurt," he called. "Your trousers are soaked clean through." He picked them up from where they were lolling in the surf, and held them high overhead. "We shall have to wait until they are a dry before we head back."

Kurt looked up from where he was shaking sand from his shirt and frowned.

"I hope I'm not keeping you from your family obligations," Kurt said. "I can certainly bear damp trousers if you need to return to Markland."

"Not until it's time to dress for dinner," Blaine said. He laid Kurt's trousers out in the sun to dry. "Until then, I am all yours. We have plenty of time to find out what Lord Henry thinks of Mr. Dorian Gray."

He dropped himself on the blanket next to Kurt and grabbed up the book from where it had fallen, thumbing through the pages until he found the last words he could recall Kurt speaking from its pages.

"Here we are then," he said, handing the book to Kurt.

"Blaine, we were at least three pages ahead of this," Kurt said, frowning at the book.

"I must have dozed off," Blaine replied with a smile. "You'll just have to read it again."

"Am I that boring to you, Mr. Anderson?"

Blaine looked up sharply, realizing only a moment too late that his daydreaming and the subsequent cover story had backfired on him a little.

"Quite the opposite, actually," Blaine said. "I've always been so absent-minded, you see. I was forever getting criticized for it in school. It's a wonder I got my diploma at all."

"Maybe you should be the one to read aloud, then."

"No, please," Blaine said. "I do so like the timbre of your voice." Perhaps he spoke a little too candidly, but Kurt didn't seem to mind.

"Well, that's a first," Kurt said, a single eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Usually when men your age hear me speak, they ask me if I'm yet able to grow whiskers."

It was true that Kurt's voice was of a higher pitch than most men of nineteen years, but Blaine found it soothing and it hurt him to know that Kurt had been made to feel that it was less than masculine.

"You sound plenty old enough to grow whiskers to me. In fact…" Blaine trailed off as he leaned forward to see Kurt's jaw line more clearly. "I can see the hint of a shadow on your chin right now. So it's with certainty I can say you're a grown man."

Kurt shoved his shoulder playfully and Blaine landed on the blanket with a dull thud, feigning offense at Kurt's derision.

"You know," Kurt said, looking out over the rolling waves. The sun was sinking lower in the horizon and he had to squint to look west toward town, so they sat with the sun at their backs. "Everyone says you're a bit of a cad."

"Who's everyone?"

"The hotel guests," Kurt said. "My father."

"Well then it must be true," Blaine said, picking at the edge of the blanket. He had long ago ceased to be concerned with what others thought. A little talk was nothing if no one had proof, and at any rate, it simply _wasn't_ true. Blaine might be a great many things, but he was definitely not the heartless rogue people had made him out to be. Nevertheless, he'd done very little to dissuade his acquaintances of their false opinions.

"I don't believe it," Kurt said.

"Oh?" Blaine said, his interest piqued.

"No," Kurt replied, sincerely. "I think you're… misunderstood."

Blaine turned to his back and sighed. "Aren't we all?" he said.

"Perhaps. It's not as if people ever take the time to get to know one another."

"So jaded for one so young, Mr. Hummel," Blaine teased.

"I'm not jaded," Kurt said. "I'm simply a realist. Do you feel like anyone really knows you?"

Blaine pondered that for a moment. His brother understood him in ways no one else did, and there had, of course, been Oliver. But no one knew the real Blaine Anderson; no one had ever bothered to try. He slowly shook his head in response to Kurt's question.

"Exactly. No one really cares," Kurt said. He picked at the ground beneath his feet, fingers making lazy patterns in the coarse sand. He picked up a broken shell and lobbed it toward the water.

Blaine looked up at him then, this sad, beautiful boy and said, "I care, Kurt."

At Blaine's words, Kurt turned so quickly that his still-damp hair flopped thickly over his forehead. Blaine ached to smooth it away from his face.

"You barely know me," Kurt said.

"I'd like to know more," Blaine insisted. "It sounds like we could both use a friend."

"Friends," Kurt said with a gentle smile. "I'd like that."

Their gazes lingered on one another for a moment before Blaine's fear overtook him. He stood up so quickly his head spun from all the blood rushing to it. He took a moment to steady himself and then walked over to where Kurt's trousers were drying in the sun. Running his hand along the seams, he found they were only slightly damp now.

"I think we should head back," he said. "Your clothes are nearly dry, and it's getting late."

He glanced back and noticed Kurt's face had fallen into a confused expression, but he didn't inquire after it. He simply gathered up Kurt's clothing and handed it off, looking away as Kurt dressed himself.

By the time they had cleaned up everything and were back on the boat, Blaine could tell they were barely going to make it back in time to dress for dinner. His grandfather was going to be furious.

The trip back to the bayfront was quiet, neither of them looking to break the gentle spell of the afternoon. Kurt stared out over the water and Blaine watched him curiously, noting the high color in his cheeks from a few hours in the sun, his delicate pink-and-white complexion dotted with light freckles. Kurt hadn't been lying; the tiny brown flecks of color stood out shockingly dark against his skin, daring Blaine to map them out across Kurt's body. Kurt's soft, brown hair looked golden in the waning sunlight, a halo fit for an angel or at least someone as striking as Kurt.

When Kurt glanced back at Blaine, his cornflower blue eyes seemed to plead with him not to let their time together end yet, and Blaine wanted the same. He longed to get lost in Kurt's eyes as he memorized every fleck of green and gold in them.

"Thank you for taking me sailing," Kurt said.

"It was my honest and sincere pleasure," Blaine replied, unable to keep the broad smile from his face. The tightness of his cheeks served as a pleasant reminder of a precious afternoon spent at the seaside. He licked his lips, tasting the salt that lingered there and wondered if Kurt's lips were as salty as his own. Funny how a memory could linger like that — a pleasant phantom of so many wonderful things he had yet to savor.

Hands working quickly to secure the sail, he considered inviting Kurt and his father to join him for brandy after dinner. Would his grandfather mind the intrusion? They were supposed to entertain the Fabrays, but surely there could be no harm in asking two gentlemen to join them. Just as Blaine was tying off the boat and stepping ashore, the cathedral's bells chimed the hour.

"Has it really gotten that late?" Blaine asked, not really needing the answer. He could count the chimes as easily as Kurt could. They were going to be late for dinner if they didn't hurry.

Without thinking, Blaine grabbed Kurt's wrist and tugged him down from the boat. He began sprinting toward the Ponce, the clattering of the picnic basket against Kurt's hip echoing through the plaza.

He and Kurt parted without a word at the front gate to the hotel and Blaine continued down King Street toward Markland. As the staunch, white columns came into view, he settled into a light jog, hoping to catch his breath so his grandfather would have one less thing to criticize. He only hoped he made it early enough to bathe before dressing for dinner, yet late enough that he didn't have time for a lecture.

"Blaine Anderson," his grandfather's voice boomed out at him from where he sat in a rocking chair on the front porch. "Where on God's green earth have you been?"

"I went sailing, grandfather. I told you this morning."

"Yes, and I told you to be back in time for dinner."

Blaine scratched a pattern across the boards of the porch with the edge of his shoe, refusing to make eye contact. He knew if he saw the disapproval on his grandfather's face, his temper would get the better of him.

"I have plenty of time to dress," he said through clenched teeth.

"And you're filthy – covered in sand. You can't go in through the front entrance. Go around back and use the servants' entrance." His long arm extended out to his right as he pointed toward the back of the house.

Blaine looked down at his haggard appearance and bit back a laugh. He was indeed completely disheveled; sand was stuck to his trousers and shoes, and a dark, wet spot covered his left leg from hip to knee.

"And for heaven's sake, leave your damp trousers on the porch."

In defiance, Blaine unbuttoned his pants and disrobed in full view of every passerby on the busy street in front of Markland, daring his grandfather with his eyes to protest. He dropped the damp clothing over the porch railing and took off down the front steps making his way to the kitchen entrance.

"No wonder your mother sent you to me. You're no better than a child!"

"Pretentious old man," Blaine grumbled, climbing the steps to the kitchen.

He was knocked backward and scrambled to catch his balance when he collided with a tall, solid mass. A strong arm reached out and grabbed him to prevent him from falling off the small porch.

"Jenkins!" he exclaimed.

"My apologies, Mr. Blaine," the man said. "I was just headed back to the servants' quarters." His eyes traveled down the length of Blaine's body and widened when he saw the lack of garments below the waist. "Sir, can I fetch you a clean pair of trousers?"

"No, no," Blaine said, waving him off. "Just a bit of a sailing mishap. I need to dress for dinner anyway. Is my suit laid out?"

"Yessir."

"Very well, then," Blaine replied and walked off tall and proud as if he weren't half naked in his grandfather's kitchen.

The routine for dinner was exactly the same as the previous evening, and Blaine was bored before they even got to the hotel. Even the gorgeous lobby and dining room of the Ponce seemed redundant now, and he simply wanted the evening to draw to a close.

They approached a group standing at the foot of the staircase, and a stocky man with a thick, blonde mustache greeted his grandfather warmly.

"Andrew," he said in a booming voice that echoed through the crowded lobby.

"Russell, good to see you made it all in one piece," Blaine's grandfather replied, before turning back to Blaine and made the proper introductions. "Blaine, this is Mr. Russell Fabray, his wife Judith, and their daughter Lucy." "They'll be joining us for dinner this evening."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Blaine said, shaking Mr. Fabray's hand and nodding his greetings to the ladies, which included Mary Smethurst. When his eyes landed on Lucy, with her sparkling green eyes and blonde hair pinned back smartly, he smiled broadly and warmly, just as was expected of a young man being introduced to an attractive and available young lady. He could see his grandfather's terse nod of approval at Blaine's reaction.

"Gentleman, shall we find some drinks in the bar and leave the ladies to their more _delicate_ conversation?"

"Andrew, I think that sounds like the best idea you've had all day," Mr. Fabray said, clapping him smartly on the shoulder.

Blaine gave his regards to the ladies and followed the gentlemen to the bar.

He forced himself to make conversation, talking about the stock market, the weather, even young women, but it was empty and tiring, and Blaine wanted nothing more than to have a stiff drink and end this charade as quickly as possible.

The bartender gave him the same forced smile and rehearsed warm welcome that every member of the hotel's staff seemed to use. In return, Blaine gave the cursory nod and expected response. The entire routine executed like a well-rehearsed play; Blaine felt like he was looking down on the scene from a balcony, letting the story play out while his fate was determined by a wayward playwright with no sense of realistic dialogue or proper pacing.

"Thank you," he said, accepting his drink from the barman. He sipped it, even though he felt like downing it, because that was the way it was done — every action a predetermined course; every word a line in a script.

He turned around and rested his elbow on the bar, scanning the room for a companion who might not make him want to stick his dessert fork in his ear. He saw his grandfather and Mr. Fabray, smoking cigars and patting each other on the back, no doubt congratulating each other on being such pompous blowhards. To their right he saw Roger Davis, picking at his buttons and trying to blend into the wallpaper, a nervous, half-hearted smile on his face. Blaine considered crossing the room to talk to him, if for no other reason to put him out of his misery, but then the gentleman to his left stepped back, and Kurt was standing right there at the end of the bar, a small glass of wine in one hand, as Charlie Atwater droned on about his family business, no doubt.

In reality, the boy knew nothing of it. He just liked people to think that he did. At just 18, Charlie was developing into a first-rate bore like his brother William, whom Blaine had known at Harvard.

Blaine's eyes were drawn back to Kurt. He reminded Blaine of a Greek statue, his prominent nose accenting his profile and furthering the notion that it was carved from marble. He looked proud without being boastful, and strong without even a hint of brute force, whereas Charlie came across as arrogant and shrill, like a yappy dog who'd gotten underfoot and nipped at one's heels. Blaine wanted desperately to relieve Kurt of such repugnant company. He also wanted to take him upstairs and pull him to pieces on a soft bed. Show him the ways of physical pleasure that had taken Blaine years to learn. Kurt would be a responsive pupil and an insatiable lover. He was sure of it.

"Gentlemen," Blaine said, interrupting Charlie midsentence, "have you seen the menu for this evening? Consommé again. I would rather drink the dregs of cheap whiskey than endure that another day."

Charlie was left gaping like a codfish at Blaine's intrusion. He likely assumed Kurt was enthralled by his tall tales, and that he had another name he could add to the list of society acquaintances with which he hoped to impress the ladies of Boston when he returned to school at the beginning of term.

"Blaine Anderson, I had no idea you'd be at the Ponce," Charlie said. He thwacked Blaine on the shoulder and shook his hand firmly. "Staying with your grandfather?"

"Yes, he's around here somewhere," Blaine said as Charlie craned his neck. "You should go say hello. We're dining with the Fabrays tonight. I'm sure they'd all love to hear how your mother is getting on in her new house."

"Oh yes, quite," Charlie said, and he was gone quick as a flash.

"That insufferable…" Blaine trailed off. He turned to smile at Kurt. "Mr. Hummel. Good to see you again."

Kurt beamed and then caught himself, hiding the familiarity behind his drink. "Mr. Anderson. Good evening." He paused and smirked over the rim of his glass. "I take it you got back to your grandfather's residence in time to dress for dinner."

Blaine couldn't help himself. He laughed at Kurt's teasing and relaxed a little at the realization that Kurt had dropped the formalities as quickly as he had. "Just barely. He lectured me on propriety before I was allowed to enter the house, and then I had to leave my damp trousers on the porch and walk round to the servant's entrance in my skivvies."

Kurt's face flushed as he bit his lower lip. "I hope no one saw you," he said.

"Only my grandfather's man, Jenkins. I'm sure he's seen bare legs before."

Blaine's mind flashed to sight of Kurt's bare legs, strong and lithe, as he dove into the waves.

He could see out of the corner of his eye that Kurt was biting back laughter, and it made his heart soar. He suddenly remembered the way Kurt had laughed freely that very afternoon, his face sunlit and carefree as they whiled away hours near the salty ocean. The pink of Kurt's cheeks and his darkened freckles served as the only tangible memento of the day.

"You're dining with the Fabrays this evening?" Kurt asked. "Pity. I was hoping you could join me and my father at our table. Regale us with your witty prose."

"Oh that I could," Blaine said, genuinely disappointed. "My grandfather is expecting me to court their daughter Lucy. And I'm on thin ice already. Otherwise, I'd certainly weasel my way out of it somehow."

They were quiet for a moment.

"She's lovely," Kurt said.

"Who?"

"Miss Fabray."

"Oh," Blaine said. "I suppose she is. If one is into that sort of… thing." He gestured to his front, indicating large bosoms, and Kurt giggled.

A tall, balding man with a friendly face suddenly appeared at Kurt's elbow. Blaine recognized him from dinner the night before.

"Kurt, they've rung the dinner bell; we need to be seated."

"Yes, of course," Kurt said, ever the gentleman, but on _his_ lips, the words didn't seem scripted. "But first I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine. Blaine Anderson, this is my father, Burt Hummel."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Hummel," Blaine said, shaking the man's hand, noting that his grip was firm but not intimidating.

"So you're the young man who dominated my son's afternoon," Burt said. "I was beginning to think you might be a girl."

"Father!" Kurt said, sounding scandalized.

"Oh, lighten up," he said. "I just meant that I wondered if you had made this Blaine character up so you could run off with a young lady."

"You know I'm engaged to Rachel," Kurt said.

"Well, that's not married, now is it?" Burt elbowed Kurt gently in the side.

Kurt's jaw dropped again, but Burt's eyes were full of mirth. He obviously enjoyed riling his son up. Blaine liked him already.

"Kurt tells me you're working on some sort of new self-propelled engine over at Edison," Blaine said as they made their way to the dining room. "Maybe we could talk more about it over brandy later."

"Absolutely," Burt said. "We'll see you after dinner, Blaine."

Blaine nodded to Kurt with a smile, and set off to find his grandfather and their guests.

* * *

Banal chatter and thick, heavy sauces defined dinner, and it all began to feel like being trapped on the same brightly colored carousel going round and round until the end of time. Blaine glanced to the table where the Hummels were seated with the Barrows. Kurt looked as bored as Blaine felt, only less resigned to the repetition of life, and it occurred to Blaine for the first time that Kurt probably hadn't felt the circular drag of time that Blaine couldn't escape. Kurt had yet to experience the predictability of high society living, and something about that brightened his spirits. There was so much to show him, so much to experience through another's eyes — the wonder, the joy, the delight. He wanted to glut himself on it.

Just then, Kurt glanced up and smiled when he met Blaine's eyes. Blaine tipped his glass in the young man's direction and returned his gaze to the table. His grandfather was watching him closely, eyes narrowed. Blaine cleared his throat.

"Mrs. Fabray," he said. "I heard you're helping with the Alicia Hospital benefit this year."

He sighed heavily as Mrs. Fabray described the event in great detail from fireworks to a "real-life, authentic Venetian gondola" that was to make an appearance.

"Of course, our darling Lucy is quite the gracious hostess as well," Mrs. Fabray said, reciting the words as if they had been written for that exact moment. "I do hope you'll attend one of our fêtes in New York when the season is over."

"I'd be delighted," Blaine replied precisely on cue and drawing a perfectly timed demure smile from Lucy Fabray for his efforts.

Out of the corner of his eye, Blaine saw Dr. Anderson's expression soften into a satisfied smile as his grandson made a renewed attempt at polite conversation. Blaine was back to the script once again, and the old man couldn't have been happier.

"How is your father these days, Blaine?" Mr. Fabray inquired, scooping a large bite of fish into his gigantic mouth. His belly strained against his ill-fitting waistcoat, and Blaine wondered if it might burst if the man drank another sip of wine.

"He's as well as can be expected, I suppose. He hasn't me to criticize at the moment, though, so I'm sure he's feeling a bit perturbed over it all."

Blaine sniffed at his own joke and felt a pointed kick to his shin under the table. The jolt of pain caused him to inhale sharply. When he met his grandfather's eyes they were narrowed again, letting him know he was flubbing his lines. Blaine glanced nervously back at the Fabrays who were still staring at him rapt, imploring him to continue.

"Although, I haven't gotten a letter from home yet. I suspect mother will be writing soon. Shall I tell her you've asked after him?"

Blaine took another bite of his potatoes to keep himself from saying anything else his grandfather might find unsuitable.

"I suspect I'll hear from him soon enough if you take to our Lucy," Mr. Fabray said. He nudged Dr. Anderson's elbow and grinned broadly.

"Father!"

"Oh my pet, you needn't be embarrassed," he said. "We all know why we're here. No need to pad the stuffing further."

"Especially not in your case," Blaine muttered into his mashed potatoes.

"Beg your pardon?" Mr. Fabray said. He obviously hadn't heard Blaine's gibe based on his jovial smile, but his grandfather's glare could be felt keenly even without a sideways glance in his direction.

"It's no secret my grandson is in search of a wife," Dr. Anderson said, looking pointedly at Blaine. "Do not be embarrassed, Miss Lucy."

She looked down to where her hands were folded politely in her lap. "Word does get around," she said.

Blaine wanted to rescue her from such discussion. It never ceased to repulse him when women were treated as invisible, or worse, property. He was certain Lucy felt like the latter at the moment, and he needed her to know he did not feel the same.

"I abhor gossip," he said. "Never had much use for it."

Lucy's eyes shot up to meet his gaze and she smiled, catching herself at the last minute and reaching for her water glass. Blaine returned his attentions to his food feeling a bit better about the evening.

After that, the chatter returned to more superficial things and Blaine kept catching glimpses of Lucy staring at him. He'd charmed her at least. Perhaps he could drag this out and keep both his mother and grandfather off his back a while longer.

When the Fabray ladies rose to leave, Blaine stood alongside his grandfather and bid them goodnight. Lucy's gaze lingered on him as the gentlemen made plans for meeting in the billiard room and she looked regretful as she followed her mother and the other ladies to the parlor.

As soon as they were out of sight, Blaine turned to his grandfather and said, "I've made plans to meet the Hummels after dinner to tour the boiler room," he said. "Do you gentlemen mind if I take my leave?"

"Why don't you invite them to join us for brandy and cigars first," Mr. Fabray suggested. "I'd love to hear what Mr. Hummel has been up to working with Henry Ford."

Dr. Anderson nodded his agreement, but grabbed Blaine by the sleeve and leaned in close. "You will call on Lucy tomorrow," he said just loud enough for Blaine to hear. "I've already arranged it with Russell and Judith. They're expecting you for tea."

Blaine tugged his sleeve from his grandfather's grip, the only protest he could make, and muttered a terse, "Yes, sir."

As he began to make his way to the Hummels' table, his eyes fell upon Kurt and immediately, Blaine felt his mood shift and lighten. He made a concerted effort to straighten his posture and bring himself up as tall as his five feet, eight inches would allow, wishing somehow that he could correct the freefall of his life so easily, but the sight of Kurt from across the room buoyed his steps and made him wonder if it might be that easy after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gilded Cage updates every Thursday at 9pm ET. Also I'm posting extra info/pictures/etc. over on my Tumblr at [randomactsofdouchebaggery](http://randomactsofdouchebaggery.tumblr.com). Come find me and say hello.


	4. Chapter 4

Kurt looked up from his coffee to see Blaine approaching their table. His heart hammered in his chest at the sight of him, back straight as an arrow, his pomaded hair glinting in the soft glow of the electric lights.

"Good evening, Mr. Hummel," he said, as expected, greeting the older gentleman first. "Kurt. I hope I'm not interrupting." He glanced around their table and smiled at the Barrows.

"Not at all, Blaine," Burt said.

"I came over to invite you and Kurt to join us for brandy and cigars. Mr. Barrow, you're welcome too, of course."

Blaine glanced furtively at Kurt, who was trying desperately to hide his excitement behind delicate bone china filled with a bitter dark roast. The brief nod in his direction could have been dismissed as a polite acknowledgement, and nothing more, if it hadn't made Kurt's skin feel like it was radiating fire. Warm coffee struck the back of this throat much too abruptly and he coughed to clear it, drawing the attention of the entire table.

"Sorry," Kurt said. "The coffee is getting cold." It was a flimsy excuse, but it turned the attention back to Blaine who was now biting his lip smugly as he fought back a grin.

"Gentlemen, I understand if you already have plans," he said.

"Kurt and I are free," Burt said. "Mr. Barrow?"

Kurt couldn't be sure, but it looked like Mrs. Barrow elbowed her husband in the side just as he was about to speak.

"I promised my wife a stroll along the bayfront," Mr. Barrow replied, wincing. "Perhaps some other time." He looked positively put out that he was unable to hobnob with the Andersons. Kurt was sure Mr. Barrow would give his wife an earful as soon as they were gone.

Blaine waited patiently as the Barrows bid them all goodnight, and Kurt took the opportunity to study Blaine's impeccable dress and flawless carriage. He looked the epitome of a gentleman and Kurt's body practically ached with jealousy. Why couldn't he look as comfortable in his own skin? He'd grown too fast, all gangly limbs and too-big feet, and he still felt out of place in his formal suit, despite its good fit. In an attempt to match Blaine's demeanor, as he stood up he tugged at his waistcoat and straightened his neck, lifting his nose higher and trying to look at ease in his body.

"You look fine," Blaine muttered in Kurt's ear. "Stop fidgeting."

Kurt's breath caught in his throat as he tried not to look at Blaine's face, which was now far nearer than it had been moments ago. His nerves threatened to overtake him even as he wondered why Blaine's presence affected him so heavily.

Blaine didn't say anything more, though, and instead led them all out of the dining room.

"Kurt, are you feeling ill?" his father asked, leaning in so the other gentlemen couldn't hear him. "You look flushed."

"I'm fine," he said. "Just too much sun today."

His father sniffed but seemed to accept the explanation even as Kurt's heart pumped so rapidly in his chest that it threatened to leap from his body and land on the mosaic marble tile at their feet.

"Mr. Hummel," Blaine said. "Kurt tells me you helped rewire the hotel when they upgraded the electrical system last year."

"Indeed I did," Burt replied.

"Perhaps you could give me a tour of the boiler room later."

"I'd be happy to," Burt said. "If you don't think the hotel manager would mind."

"I'm sure he can be persuaded," Blaine said with a chuckle as he approached the bar. "What's your poison, gentlemen?"

"Brandy?" Burt said and Kurt nodded his agreement. He wasn't much of a brandy drinker himself, but he didn't trust his own voice not to betray his excited nerves, so he remained silent and accepted the drink with pleasure.

The group took their drinks and headed toward the smoking room, which was down the hall from the front desk and just across from the barber shop. Kurt had yet to venture down this corridor and he was easily taken by the relaxed atmosphere of this section of the hotel. The very notion seemed at odds with the décor of the building itself — its every corner gilded like a Sultan's bed chamber. This area felt different, masculine and homey, whereas the other rooms felt more like a formal sitting room.

As soon as they entered the oak-paneled room, Blaine steered Kurt toward a man just barely taller than Blaine with a thick mustache and steely gray eyes.

"Grandfather, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine," Blaine said, gesturing to Kurt. "Kurt Hummel, this is my grandfather, Dr. Andrew Anderson."

"Dr. Anderson," Kurt said, holding out his hand in greeting. He hoped his shaking couldn't be seen by the old man as he waited for him to return the gesture, but Kurt was not to receive the reassurance he desired. Dr. Anderson looked down his nose at Kurt and sniffed, forcing Kurt to lower his hand.

Blaine's jaw was slack, but he didn't say anything as he looked from his grandfather to Kurt and back again.

"Blaine, if you'll excuse me, I see Clark Howell over there and I really must say hello. Have a good evening, Mr. Humble."

"It's Hummel," Kurt corrected, even though he knew the old man wouldn't acknowledge him.

"Kurt, I'm sorry about that," Blaine said. "I don't know what has gotten into-"

"Don't worry about it," Kurt said with a half-hearted shrug. "I'm used to it." Dr. Anderson's snub wounded Kurt's pride, but he refused to let it show — least of all to Blaine.

"He shouldn't have been so rude," Blaine insisted.

"I'm fine," Kurt said. When Blaine didn't look convinced, he added, "Truly."

Blaine's expression relaxed some, but as he introduced Kurt to several of his grandfather's friends, each cordial but cool greeting caused Kurt's body to become increasingly stiff and tense. He found himself wishing he could fade into the walls instead of being subjected to yet another round of snobbish scrutiny.

When finally Blaine seemed to have greeted everyone he knew, Kurt left his side. He felt his shoulders relax as he took a seat next to his father, who was already lighting a fat cigar while he made idle conversation with a stout, bespectacled man whom Kurt had never met.

"My wife tells me you went for a stroll today with Mrs. Hudson," the man said.

Burt stiffened at the man's remarks, and glanced quickly at his son. This was the first Kurt heard on the matter, and he wondered who this woman was. He'd not been introduced to anyone named Hudson, and he searched his memory for any of the dozens of women he'd seen, but none had been in the company of his father.

"We uh…" Burt stammered. "That is…"

"It's perfectly acceptable, Burt. Bess says she's been out of mourning for a few months now, and your wife's been gone going on what? A year?"

Burt made eye contact with Kurt this time and said, "John, I don't believe you've met my son. Kurt, this is Mr. John Lowry."

Just then Blaine reappeared at Kurt's side. "John, you gossip just like a woman. Why don't you leave Mr. Hummel alone. No one wants to talk about widows over brandy. We're supposed to boast about our financial prowess and immense superiority over the unwashed masses." He laughed cordially, but Kurt could see the hint of mockery in his eyes and the worry behind his smile when he glanced furtively to Kurt.

Kurt raised his glass to his lips and sipped the amber liquid, letting it roll across his tongue as he savored the bitter sweetness of it. When he swallowed, he noticed Blaine carefully studying his every move.

"Did I do it wrong?" Kurt muttered under his breath.

"What?" Blaine said, furrowing his brow at Kurt before realization dawned on his face. "No! I was just… well, actually, I was watching you savor that brandy."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Kurt said. He glanced nervously at his father, but could see he was deep in conversation with Mr. Lowry again, and so he returned his attentions to Blaine. "Is that wrong? I thought it was meant to be sipped."

"Oh it is," Blaine said, bringing his own glass to his lips. "I've just not seen anyone enjoy brandy like that in a long time."

Something dark and worrisome colored Blaine's features, but Kurt didn't ask what he meant. He simply smiled and took another sip of his drink.

"I enjoyed sailing," Kurt said.

"And the swimming?"

"And the swimming."

"We should do it again," Blaine said. "Or something else… anything." His eyes reflected the color of the brandy and they radiated a warmth that seemed as if it were directed at Kurt alone. Or Kurt 's face _felt_ warm, at any rate. Perhaps it was the brandy. He set his glass down so quickly he almost dropped it.

"Careful," Blaine said, his hand brushing Kurt's as he reached to steady the glass.

Kurt pulled away abruptly and clasped his hands together in his lap, causing Blaine's expression to shift. Kurt wished he hadn't reacted so impulsively, but the sudden contact had startled him, and he wasn't really sure why.

"I'm such a clumsy dolt," Kurt said, picking at his cuticles rather than making eye contact.

"Hardly," Blaine said. "You just need to relax."

Kurt snorted. "And maybe stop drinking coffee after dinner."

"That might help too," Blaine said with a laugh.

"What are your plans for tomorrow?" Blaine asked. "I have to call on a friend in the afternoon, but I'm free before then."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Blaine. I have plans to meet Mr. de Crano," Kurt said. "He's going to teach me painting technique."

"Another time, then," Blaine said. "Perhaps after dinner?"

Blaine pulled his cigarette case from his jacket pocket, and now that they were no longer in the shadows of the orange grove as they had been the night before, Kurt could see that it was an intricately decorated silver case with Blaine's initials emblazoned on the front. Blaine opened it and offered a cigarette to Kurt. He twisted it between his fingers and noticed it was hand-rolled; the tobacco smelled sharp, as if it had just been made. It wasn't uncommon for men of Blaine's stature to roll their own tobacco, and Kurt was certain he had his own personal blend that a shopkeeper kept on hand for him. Kurt either bought his father's cigars or his own machine-rolled cigarettes when he indulged.

As he had the night before, Blaine lit his own cigarette before offering the match to Kurt. Blaine's hand cupped the flame and he leaned in close to light Kurt's cigarette. At close range, Kurt noticed that the skin of Blaine's hand looked soft and touchable like a woman's but his broad palms and slightly tapered fingers suggested an unmistakable masculine strength. He wondered why that fascinated him so.

Kurt sucked in a deep breath as the flame hit the end of the paper and his mouth was filled with the smooth, earthy taste of the tobacco. When he exhaled, his eyes met Blaine's and held them for a moment, just a few recklessly intoxicating seconds, but it felt so much longer, as if the world had stopped — a single heartbeat suspended in time — and there was nothing else in it but eyes the color of afternoon tea in the soft flicker of lamplight.

Someone cleared his throat a few feet away and broke the spell, along with Blaine's hypnotic hold on Kurt.

With a nimble movement of his right wrist, Blaine shook the match to extinguish the flame, but left his other hand resting on the table next to Kurt's elbow. When he pulled back, Blaine's fingertips grazed the stiff fabric of Kurt's dinner jacket, and Kurt felt the brief touch in every part of his body, a phantom of a feeling he couldn't quite identify.

Blaine took a long drag on his cigarette, the muscles in his neck flexing with the inhale. Kurt placed his cigarette between his own lips and did the same, neither of them speaking while the other men in the room chattered raucously around them. Blaine looked at ease but in a different way than he had at the beach earlier that day. Kurt could hardly believe this was the same man who frolicked boyishly at the seaside and waxed poetic about Oscar Wilde. There was no trace of that boy here now; Blaine's demeanor was the very definition of gentlemanly, a well-practiced coupling of dignity and propriety that threatened to steal Kurt's heart from his chest.

Kurt hadn't realized how long the two of them had sat together silently until he heard several of the older gentlemen bidding their dinner companions a good evening. Burt stretched his back and stubbed out his cigar in a pristine brass ashtray next to his chair.

"I think I'm going to head up too. Kurt, are you staying a while longer?"

Kurt glanced at Blaine who didn't look sleepy in the slightest. "Mr. Anderson and I were just about to discuss a book he is reading. I'll be up soon."

Blaine smiled at him, pulling his cigarette between his lips as he extended his hand to Kurt's father. "I promise I won't keep him up too late, Mr. Hummel."

Burt snorted out a laugh. "You boys have fun."

Kurt looked around to find that only a few of the younger gentlemen remained in the smoking room, none of them in the immediate vicinity of himself and Blaine.

"You look troubled, my young Mr. Hummel." Blaine's tone possessed a teasing quality that pulled the corners of Kurt's mouth into a smile without his permission.

"And you look like the cat that got the cream," Kurt said.

"I am insulted," Blaine said, hand to his heart in mock offense. "This is just my normal countenance, I assure you. Nothing untoward."

"Tell that to my freckles."

"Ah yes, I noticed you looking a bit more… _spotty_ than you did at the start of the day. But tell me this," he said, raising his eyebrows and grinning, "wasn't it worth it?"

"I'll let you know when they fade a bit."

"I think it's charming," Blaine said.

Kurt scoffed. "Well it's a good thing I'm trying to charm _you_ , Mr. Anderson. My ability to charm a man should come in quite handy in life." He stubbed out his cigarette and glanced up at Blaine to see a curious expression on his face that if Kurt didn't know better, he'd swear was disappointment.

Blaine shook his head and his expression cleared, a bright smile returning to his face. "Well I'm charmed, nevertheless," he said.

Unsure of what to say next, Kurt blinked at him, but thankfully Blaine spoke first.

"Shall we get another drink?" he asked. "Or my offer for a game of billiards still stands."

"I think I'd like another brandy," Kurt said. "Or perhaps some whiskey."

"A man after my own heart," Blaine said, clapping Kurt on the shoulder smartly. "Whiskey it is!"

Blaine returned from the bar with two glasses and a half-empty bottle of whiskey, to which Kurt raised an eyebrow.

Blaine simply shrugged and said, "I didn't want to have to keep getting up."

Kurt almost said something to him about not imbibing to the point of drunkenness, but when the oaky liquid hit his tongue, his protest was forgotten.

"So tell me about your Rachel," Blaine said, pouring them both another drink and lighting himself another cigarette.

"Rachel," Kurt said. "Where shall I begin?"

"Well you love her, right?" Blaine sipped from his glass and leveled Kurt with a look that felt like a challenge. "Tell me what you love about her."

She was a force to be reckoned with and she had very few friends thanks to an aggressive personality and a selfish nature, and Kurt took it all in stride. But he didn't say any of that, deciding it seemed disloyal to tell a relative stranger all that.

"Of _course_ I love her," Kurt said, avoiding his deeper inquiry for reasons he couldn't explain. "We're getting married aren't we?"

"Are you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing at all," Blaine replied. "I just noticed you phrased it as a question. I wondered why that is." He smirked as he lifted his glass to his lips once again, and Kurt's annoyance simmered.

Kurt considered his words. He did love Rachel; she was practically family, and he'd known her most of his life. He wanted nothing but good things for her and admired her spirit immensely. He had offered to marry her to save her mother from having to remarry after Mr. Berry had died, and he intended to see it through. The only problem was that when he looked at her, he felt nothing beyond warm affection, and that terrified him. Wasn't love supposed to be this all-encompassing, electric thing? Wasn't that what the poets were all going on about? He glanced back up at Blaine, the color of the whiskey matching his golden eyes, and Kurt's heart fluttered wildly in his chest.

"Blaine Anderson, you're insufferable."

"And yet, here you are again in my company."

Kurt huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, lifting his chin. "Don't flatter yourself," he said. "It's either this or retiring to my room with my father, which, now that I think of it, sounds like the better option. Good evening, Mr. Anderson."

He pushed back his chair and stubbed out his cigarette as he rose. He suddenly felt the effects of the spirits and he wobbled when he stood.

"Easy there," Blaine said, grabbing Kurt by the elbow and pulling him back into his chair.

"I think I should check on my father," Kurt said.

"I think you should have another drink," Blaine said, his eyes wide and pleading as he reached for the bottle.

Kurt nodded, and Blaine poured him another whiskey.

"But just the one," Kurt said, ignoring Blaine's low chuckle as he took his seat again.

Several drinks later, Kurt's head was swimming and the edges of the room had begun to go fuzzy, the scalloped pattern of the molding near the ceiling blurring together into a haze of shapeless colors. He squinted and tried to focus on the hem of his sleeve, but it too had lost detail.

"I think perhaps I'm drunk." Kurt slouched in his chair and closed his eyes. "How do you keep the room from spinning?"

"Don't drink so much," Blaine said with a shrug.

"Oh, that's helpful," Kurt said. He leaned forward and braced himself on the edge of the table as he scooted his chair out and attempted to rise to standing. He only swayed a little, and grabbed Blaine's shoulder for balance. Maybe he gripped it tighter than was absolutely necessary, but it was only because he was unsteady on his feet.

"Do you need some assistance, Mr. Hummel?" Blaine asked, his eyes dancing in the dim light of the smoking room. Kurt thought they looked a bit like honey like that, all sticky sweet and decadent, and if he let himself fall into them, he'd sink like quicksand. He shook his head to clear it more than to decline the offer for help.

"I'm fine," he said, releasing his hold on Blaine's shoulder. "Quite capable." And with that, he swayed and nearly fell back into his chair.

"You're not fine. I'm escorting you to your room, and that's that."

Kurt tried to protest, but his tongue felt thick and woolen; the words wouldn't form. He blinked slowly, staring at Blaine, and let his hand fall to the man's forearm.

"Go ahead and lean on me if you need to," Blaine said, and Kurt complied, leaning his weight into Blaine's deceptively strong body. He could feel the muscles flex beneath his suit, making him feel suddenly warm.

"How aren't you more intoxicated?" Kurt asked, not sure if the words came out in the right order.

Blaine laughed, a deep and pleasant chuckle that Kurt felt in his toes. Whiskey never had that effect on him. He reasoned it must be a stronger proof than he was used to back home, or maybe Mr. Hamish was watering it down at Kurt's favorite bar. He was always doing silly stuff like that to Kurt, treating him like a child and insisting he'd never look grown up, no matter how many years had passed.

"No, I'm serious," Kurt said, halting his steps and nearly tripping Blaine in the process. "You had just as much to drink as me."

"Ah, but I'm used to it, young Mr. Hummel. I'm a villainous cad, remember? I bathe in gin and slip whiskey in my coffee when no one is looking."

"Do you really?" Kurt said as the room spun around him. Or was it the hallway? No, they were definitely in the hallway now. How had they gotten here?

Blaine laughed again, tugging on Kurt's jacket. "Let's get you upstairs, Kurt. Your father will hate me for being a bad influence on you."

"Pssh, it was just a little whiskey," Kurt said. "He drinks it all the time."

"All the same, I'd like to get you upstairs safe and sound. Come along."

"Slave driver," Kurt muttered under his breath. But he let himself be dragged along, pointing out various turns for Blaine to get him to his room.

Just as they reached the fourth floor landing, Kurt's balance gave out and he tripped on the last stair, sending himself careening into Blaine, who barely caught him before they were both catapulted down the stairs. They landed in a heap at the bottom of the short flight, midway between floors.

"I've got you," Blaine said.

Kurt's heart raced as he tried to recover his footing, but it seemed every effort he made sent him toppling back into Blaine.

"Oh goodness," Kurt said. "I'm terribly sorry." He finally got himself propped on an elbow and looked down at Blaine, who was barely biting back laughter. "What?"

"Just… this," Blaine said, gesturing between them. "We must look ridiculous."

Kurt looked back and forth between them, their legs intertwined, Blaine's shirtfront bunched and coming out the front of his waistcoat. He could feel his hair flopping down over his forehead and Blaine's curls were coming loose. Kurt began to laugh, loudly.

Blaine tried to silence him with a hand over his mouth, but Kurt only laughed louder.

"Shh, you'll wake the entire hotel," Blaine insisted.

Kurt tried to calm his laughter and looked down at Blaine, his right hand still covering the lower half of Kurt's face.

"You have such wonderful eyes," Blaine said suddenly. "Like the sea after a storm."

Kurt opened his mouth to say, "So do you," when he realized what he had almost done. Instead, he muttered a quiet "thank you," and in spite of his drunken state, somehow found his way to his feet easily.

Blaine managed to get to his feet as well and brushed off his pants, that apart from being wrinkled, looked just as dashing and well-tailored as they had at the start of the evening.

"Your shirt is coming loose," Kurt said, pointing at Blaine's waist.

He tugged his waistcoat down and smiled up at Kurt in a way that made him giggle. The whiskey had still not left his system, then. He felt himself sway again and reached for the railing, missing it by a good six inches. Blaine gripped his elbow so firmly that Kurt let out a yelp of pain.

"Sorry," Blaine said. "Steady now."

They climbed the last flight of stairs and set off down the hallway, quieter than before. Kurt could see the tension in Blaine's shoulders and longed to find a way to make him relax again. He wanted to see the bright smile that had greeted him at the shore that afternoon.

"I'm just not used to compliments," Kurt blurted suddenly.

"Beg your pardon?"

"What you said about my eyes. I wasn't sure how to take that."

"I'm sorry if I offended you, Kurt."

"You didn't."

They continued on in silence for a moment, but Blaine seemed more relaxed by the time they reached the Hummels' suite.

Kurt patted his pockets in search of his key, hoping he had remembered to pick it up off the desk before they went down to dinner. He felt his cigarettes and a small book of matches, and a pencil he kept in his jacket pocket in case he ever had the urge to sketch, before finally his fingers wrapped around a small metal object in his waistcoat pocket.

"Aha!"

He quietly turned the key in the lock and let them both inside. The fire was low, but the lights in the sitting area were still on. The door to Burt's room was closed, and Kurt could hear faint snoring coming from inside.

"He's asleep," Kurt said, trying not to giggle, even though he couldn't decide what exactly was so funny about it anyway.

"Let's get you to bed," Blaine said, shoving him toward the other bedroom.

They stumbled through the doorway and Kurt practically fell onto the bed, bringing Blaine with him. The giggling began again as Blaine tried to untangle himself from Kurt, but he had started laughing too and it was all Kurt could do to keep from laughing so loudly he'd wake his father.

"Shhhh."

"I think my watch chain is stuck on your waistcoat," Blaine whispered.

"So take it off."

"I can't. I'll break the chain."

"Not your watch, silly," Kurt said, his hand flailing a bit haphazardly between them. "My waistcoat." He dropped his head back on the bed and closed his eyes, willing the room to stop spinning.

"Your... w-waistcoat?" Blaine stammered.

But Kurt didn't respond. He was floating hazily and wanted nothing more than to sleep. He tried to say something else to Blaine, and thought he got a reply, but he didn't know what it was.

* * *

The next thing he was aware of was his father clearing his throat and a splitting headache.

"Ahem."

It was louder than before.

Kurt scrubbed his hand across his face and let it land on his chest. He was still wearing his starched shirt from the night before, his waistcoat open and his jacket missing. He propped himself up on shaky arms and squinted at his father. Thankfully the thick curtains were drawn over the windows, but the light in the room still seemed just a little too bright.

"Someone had a late night," Burt said.

Kurt's head throbbed as he tried to remember. He recalled Blaine offering him another whiskey; they talked about Rachel and then… then…

He heard a muffled groan from beside him and nearly jumped out of his skin when the blanket moved. A dark head of hair popped up from the pillow beside him and a warm hand grazed his arm as he came face to face with a very groggy and quite disheveled Blaine Anderson.

"Blaine!"

"Mmm…Kurt, it's too early to be so loud. You'll wake your father."

"His father is awake," Burt said.

With that Blaine shot up in bed. The force must have started his head throbbing too because he grabbed his forehead and groaned.

"Mr. Hummel," he said, eyes wide and looking more awake then. "I'm so sorry. I offered to bring Kurt up because he was a little tipsy and I must have fallen asleep after I put him to bed and–"

Burt dismissed Blaine's words with a wave of his hand and said, "It's perfectly fine, Blaine, but I think you should get back to your grandfather's house. I'm sure he's noticed by now that you didn't come home last night."

"Damn it all!" Blaine said. He winced and then turned to Kurt. "Sorry."

Burt chuckled and shook his head. "Kurt, please be dressed for breakfast in twenty minutes. Some coffee might help that headache."

Kurt was still too confused to respond, so he simply nodded, which made his head throb anew. As Blaine rushed about finding his shoes and jacket, Kurt took in the state of his own clothing. His jacket was fine; Blaine had draped it over a chair, but his shirt and waistcoat would need to be pressed, along with his trousers. He sighed and let his head fall back on the pillow.

"Do you remember anything from last night?" Blaine asked, pulling a sock up his leg as he tried to find its mate. He looked a little harried, probably because his grandfather would be cross with him for staying out all night.

"A little," Kurt said. "Thank you for getting me back here."

"My pleasure," Blaine said, looking a little more relaxed when he smiled at him.

At that moment, Burt appeared in the doorway again. "Blaine, I forgot to mention, there was a message for me last night. Mr. Knott said I could give a tour of the boiler room and dynamos today after breakfast if you're still interested."

"That sounds splendid," he said. "I'll mention it to my grandfather."

"Wonderful," Burt said. "Kurt, are you going to get out of bed?" He tried to look stern, but his eyes were playful.

Kurt threw back the covers and planted his feet on the floor, which must have satisfied his father because he left the two young men alone again.

"Are you going to be in any trouble?" Kurt asked.

"Not the real kind."

Kurt tilted his head, confused by Blaine's phrasing.

"He'll lecture me about propriety and good manners over breakfast and then head to the hospital to make his rounds. I'll be off the hook before midday."

Blaine's nonchalance looked forced, but Kurt didn't press the issue.

"I'll see you in a little bit," Blaine said, and then he was gone.

Kurt hurried to dress himself, and tried his best to ignore the throbbing behind his eyes. He wondered if the drug store on the corner sold his favorite headache powder, but quickly realized he would have no time to visit the shop; he could hear his father pacing in the sitting room.

"I'm coming," he called and set about finding a morning suit.

When he was dressed, he laid his evening suit out for the maid to press and headed down to the dining room with his father. The Barrows were already seated at their table when they arrived.

"Good morning," Mrs. Barrow greeted.

"Hello," Burt replied. Kurt grunted — not the most polite response, but it was all he could manage at the moment.

He gestured for the waiter to fill his coffee cup and ordered some eggs and dry toast. It was all he could think to eat the way his stomach was rolling.

"Someone looks like he had an eventful evening," Mr. Barrow said. He laughed raucously at his own joke as his wife jabbed him in the arm.

"Did you drink spirits?" Mrs. Barrow inquired gently. "I always get dreadfully sick the next day when I drink spirits." She nearly whispered it, actually, as if it were a secret to be kept.

"Whiskey," Kurt replied, and Mrs. Barrow's eyes went wide.

"Like a common factory worker," Mr. Barrow sniffed.

Burt looked at his son sternly, but Kurt was too concerned with his coffee to care. Let them judge him. It didn't matter.

"When I left you were drinking brandy," his father muttered.

"I detest brandy," Kurt said. "And Blaine asked me what I wanted. I like whiskey."

"Just be careful, Kurt. You shouldn't be getting tipsy in public like that."

"I was with Blaine," he said.

"And he was drunk as well," Burt replied.

Kurt couldn't deny that. Blaine had somehow ended up in his bed, and while there was nothing wrong with that, he didn't think it was entirely appropriate for a gentleman to be out all night.

"Should I make my apologies to his grandfather?"

"Let Blaine handle his own affairs," Burt said.

"Yes, it's always best for a gentleman to fight his own battles," Mr. Barrow said in between greasy mouthfuls of eggs and bacon. "You shouldn't get involved."

Kurt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Mr. Barrow was inserting his nose where it didn't belong, but he had been foolish enough to start the conversation in front of him. Kurt only had himself to blame.

"Father, I don't think I told you, but Mr. de Crano is going to teach me painting technique this afternoon."

"Oh, his landscapes are exquisite," Mrs. Barrow interjected.

Mr. Barrow snorted at his wife's effusion. "She thinks needlepoint is art," he said, shoveling even more eggs between his puffy lips.

Kurt wanted to sew his mouth shut and let him gag on his breakfast. "All handiwork is art, Mr. Barrow," he said.

He earned a snort for his comment as Mr. Barrow followed his eggs with a large slurp of coffee.

"My son is a tailor," Burt said. "And everything he creates is a work of art." The defensive tone in his voice caused Kurt to look up from his coffee in surprise. His father had never come to his defense before. He had always insisted that Kurt learn a more reliable trade. Dressmaking was a dream; engineering was a living.

"I thought you said he was going to work at Edison with you?" Mr. Barrow said.

Kurt gaped at them both as his father simply shrugged.

"He can do as he likes," Burt said. "He's a grown man."

"Father?"

"Kurt, your mother wanted you to follow your dream. I won't stand in the way."

Kurt could feel the tears beginning to well up behind his eyes, but he blinked them back. He refused to let Mr. Barrow see him cry.

"We should get going, Kurt. The Andersons will be waiting for us."

"The Andersons?" Mr. Barrow said, a thick eyebrow raised in question.

"Yes," Burt said, obviously enjoying the other man's envy. "I promised them a personal tour of the boiler room and facilities. If you'll excuse us."

With that, Burt stood and nodded to the Barrows. A stunned Kurt took a moment to get to his feet, nearly tugging the tablecloth with him as he stood.

"We'll see you at dinner," he said and followed his father to the lobby.

Burt was at the foot of the stairs, pacing and muttering to himself.

"That insufferable, pompous –"

"Pop…" Kurt interrupted.

Burt halted at the childish nickname and ran a hand across his head where his hair was nearly gone. It was a gesture Kurt had grown fond of over the years, a motion that was definitively his father, and it was familiar in a way that warmed his heart.

"What?"

"Did you really mean that?" Kurt asked.

"About John Barrow being an insufferable nitwit?"

"About me being a dressmaker."

"Oh… yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Burt pulled out his pocket watch and wound it, even though Kurt knew it didn't need it. Burt Hummel had wound his watch every morning before he attached the chain to its button for as long as Kurt could remember.

"Father?"

He sighed heavily, fixing Kurt with a steady gaze.

"Look, when your mother died I wondered if things would ever be right again."

Kurt felt the tears threaten to spill again, but he didn't fight it as much now that he was alone with his father.

"But then you made that dress for Rachel when she sang at the hospital benefit last month, and I saw how excited everyone was — dying to know who had made it." He reached up and wiped a stray tear, one of only a few Kurt had seen him shed since Elizabeth had died. "It's your calling, Kurt. I can't stand in the way of that."

"I don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything and hug your old man."

It wasn't something they did much anymore, but Kurt couldn't resist falling into his father's arms when he held them open for him. He allowed himself to be wrapped in familiar comfort and inhaled the scent of tobacco and coffee that seemed to always linger around Burt's body.

"I love you," he whispered into his father's lapels, feeling five years old and ancient all at once. The last time his father had held him like this, he'd been about a foot shorter. It felt odd to stand eye to eye with someone who had once looked so large.

"Kurt, you're going to make me proud no matter what. You know that, right?"

He pulled back and nodded, wiping the dampness from his eyes. They were causing a scene in the busy lobby, and he knew his father cared about that, even if he might not admit it.

Kurt looked up just in time to see Blaine entering the lobby through the carriage way entrance. His face lit up when he made eye contact, his all-over smile had the effect of making him look so much younger than his 25 years, and Kurt's heart raced.

Suddenly Kurt was reminded of the way he'd reacted to his friend Matthew, whom he'd met during his last two years of school. The boys had become friends when they found they both enjoyed singing in choir together, and whenever Kurt was around him, his heart fluttered madly. Kurt always assumed it had been a reaction to finally having a close friend, and he never considered what it meant. But now that he was reacting to Blaine similarly, he wondered if it wasn't something else entirely. Eventually Kurt and Matthew had drifted apart, and he hadn't thought of his old friend again until now. He still wasn't sure of what to make of his reaction to Blaine, but he didn't have time to contemplate it at that moment because Blaine was approaching them rapidly.

Blaine reached up to straighten his tie and squared his shoulders as he crossed the lobby to where Kurt and Burt were standing.

"Good morning, Mr. Hummel," he said to Burt, but he maintained eye contact with Kurt.

"Hello again," Burt replied.

"Where's your grandfather?" Kurt said, forgoing pleasantries in the wake of his nerves.

"He sends his regards, but he had patients to see this morning," Blaine said. "So unfortunately it's just me."

"I don't see that as a negative," Kurt said.

Blaine's eyebrows shot up as Kurt smirked. He liked shocking Blaine and drawing out the boyish charm he had seen at the beach the previous day. Blaine seemed so bored all the time and anything was a welcome change to the surly demeanor he usually held around his grandfather.

Blaine continued to look at Kurt, his eyes dancing in a glorious suspended moment of teasing that reminded Kurt of the night before when he had knocked Blaine over on the stairs leading to the fourth floor.

Kurt's face felt suddenly warm, but he couldn't draw his eyes away.

"We're sorry your grandfather couldn't make it," Burt said, breaking them both out of the moment – they had somehow been staring again. "Shall we start the tour?"

Kurt cast his gaze toward the floor. Certainly blushing and flirting like a coquettish woman wasn't an appropriate way to react to the situation, and he was grateful for his father's interruption to remind him of that. It wasn't as if Blaine was making his intentions known in front of his father – or at all. Kurt cleared his throat and straightened his tie out of habit.

Burt led them through the carriage way and into the back of the building that housed the artists' studios. They stepped into a cavernous room that held four large boilers that powered the hotel's electricity, towering over them and whirring to beat the band.

"So you know the Ponce is the first public building in Florida to be wired for electric lights?" Kurt asked, beaming with pride for his father's work.

"I didn't know that, no," Blaine replied.

Kurt nodded excitedly as his father continued.

"These four boilers are fed by nearly eight tons of coal per day," Burt said, gesturing at the hulking machines around them. "Each of them is over one hundred horsepower and that produces all the steam needed to drive the dynamos that light up the hotel. Last year when we upgraded all of this, Mr. Flagler spent one hundred thousand dollars replacing the fifty thousand feet of insulated wiring."

"The hotel has more than five thousand light bulbs," Kurt added, " and it's one of the largest installations of electricity in America. Isn't that right, father?"

Burt nodded as Kurt beamed at him, causing Blaine to smile as well.

"Now the hotel system is looking to set up an electrical plant for the entire city, but they're meeting resistance. So for now, Mr. Edison's dynamos will have to do."

"There's also an artesian well powering a generator — ten million gallons of water a day pass over a turbine water wheel and operates the dynamos."

"That's truly amazing," Blaine said, looking suddenly in awe of the massive scale of it all. Kurt wondered if Blaine had taken for granted the availability of electricity in New York, and perhaps seeing this hotel in the middle of a small town being powered through sheer force of will and manmade engineering had altered his viewpoint.

Blaine smiled at him then and it did nothing but spur Kurt's curiosity more. He only half listened to the rest of his father's tour — most of which he had memorized — as he considered the peculiar feelings Blaine had spurred within him.

* * *

After the tour, Kurt and his father had lunch in the dining room with the Barrows as was their routine, only this time, Kurt hurried to finish his meal so that he could change into something more suitable for painting. He rushed to their fourth floor room and back again, crashing through the door to Felix de Crano's studio and nearly toppling a large canvas in his wake.

"Ah, young Mr. Hummel, you're right on time."

"Mr. de Crano, such a pleasure to see you again."

Kurt held out his hand, but the painter did not take it. Instead, he tilted his head and studied Kurt for a moment.

"Something is different about you," he said finally. "Your eyes are happier."

"I beg your pardon," Kurt said, feeling utterly confused.

"No, it's there," de Crano said. "Something has changed since yesterday. A young lady?"

Kurt knitted his brow in deep confusion. "Mr. de Crano—"

"Felix," the painter corrected.

"Felix," Kurt replied, growing more infuriated by the moment. "I'm engaged to be married. I assure you there is no young lady other than my fiancé, and she's back in New York."

The painter shrugged, running his hand over his thick beard.

"My apologies," he said. "Perhaps I misjudged the reason, but you're definitely happier. I know happy. It shows in the eyes; you can't hide it."

"My mother used to say that," Kurt said, his frustration dissipating as the memories took over.

"Your mother is a wise woman. You should listen to her."

"She passed away."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Felix said, looking genuinely empathetic.

Kurt shrugged. "It's been almost a year."

"There's no time limit on grief," he said before pausing and considering Kurt's face again. "Although, I think your period of mourning is almost up." He smiled to himself, and when Kurt didn't respond, pointed at Kurt's face and said, "happy eyes."

Kurt chuckled, wondering if the old man had started on his evening brandy early. "I believe you agreed to show me some painting technique," Kurt prompted.

"So it's to be a change of subject then," de Crano said. "Very well, my young friend. We shall discuss painting technique, and you shall continue to deny what we both know to be true."

"What's that?"

"That you've fallen in love."

Kurt felt as though a blow had been struck to his ribcage, his breath leaving his body in a rush.

"I'm sorry?"

"I know," he said, waving a dismissive hand in Kurt's direction. "You don't want to talk about it, but it's there."

Kurt considered the man's words. Was he more in love with Rachel than he'd been the day before? He hadn't even gotten another letter from her, and he'd met no other women since he last visited with the painter. The only person he'd spent any significant amount of time with in the last two days was Blaine.

Kurt glanced up at Mr. de Crano and noticed he had a bright streak of green paint running down the left side of his beard. Kurt had to bite his tongue to keep from giggling at the sight. He looked positively ridiculous.

Perhaps the old man is just growing senile, Kurt considered and deciding there was nothing to be found in his words but the barely lucid ramblings of a lonely old man trying to make conversation. The change de Crano saw in Kurt was simply a change in complexion — freckled and rosy from spending the previous afternoon in the sun — nothing more. Once Kurt's conclusion was made, he exhaled, letting relief wash over him.

"Here, Kurt, you take this brush and I show you how to make dozens of beautiful flowers faster than God himself can grow them."

Kurt smiled and took the brush from Mr. de Crano's hand.

"So sure of yourself," he replied. "Should I buy bigger hats for when my head grows as large as yours?"

"First you paint," de Crano said. "Then you boast."

Kurt chuckled, lifting the brush in the air to mimic the movements de Crano was demonstrating.

"No, no, no… not like that," he said, flicking his wrist quickly. "Like this." He slowed his hand down and moved the brush in a sweeping fashion.

Kurt tried again and earned a smile from the man.

"Now we try it with paint."


	5. Chapter 5

Blaine arrived at the Ponce precisely at 4 o'clock, and inquired at the desk after the Fabrays. They were to have tea in the Solarium on the fourth floor, and he needed help finding it.

The bellboy guided him to the elevator and asked the attendant to see him safely to the Solarium. When they reached the fourth floor landing, the attendant pointed to his right and said, "Just through the door, sir and you can't miss it."

"Thank you," he said.

Blaine entered the Solarium on the west side of the domed room and was immediately enraptured by the expansive windows to his left and right. One set looked out over the front courtyard, from which a steady breeze was pouring in, and the other opened onto a bright outdoor balcony, where a few guests were enjoying the late-afternoon sun.

There were a few people sitting indoors playing cards or reading, but most were seated at small tables, set for afternoon tea. He didn't immediately see the Fabrays, so he decided to wander for a moment. When he ducked outside, he was greeted with both Hummel men, sitting in high-backed wicker chairs. Kurt was reading _Dorian Gray_ again, and Burt was partially hidden behind a large newspaper.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Hummel," he greeted. "Kurt."

Burt lowered his newspaper and squinted up at Blaine, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if Kurt's father was happy to see him. But it mattered little because as soon as he heard his own name, Kurt looked up from his book and beamed at Blaine, leaving him feeling as though he were looking straight into the sun. He leaned into its warmth and nodded in recognition.

"Good afternoon, Blaine," Burt said. "Nice to see you again." He turned to Kurt. "You didn't tell me you had plans this afternoon."

"W-we don't," Kurt said, his confusion plain. They hadn't seen each other alone since last night, but Kurt looked as though he wanted Blaine to whisk him away. Blaine longed to fulfill that wish — and every wish — but it was not meant to be.

"Sadly, my afternoon is already spoken for," he said. "I'm here to have tea with the Fabrays."

"Oh yes," Burt said. "That nice couple from dinner last night." He paused and glanced from Kurt to Blaine. "Miss Lucy is a fine young woman."

"So I understand," Blaine said, not wishing to show his hand. If he told anyone his grandfather expected him to court Lucy, it would be all over the hotel by dinner time.

Kurt's entire body seemed to stiffen at his words, or perhaps Blaine imagined it. Either way it made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn't quite understand. Blaine cleared his throat and pulled his shoulders back.

"I really should be finding my hosts," he said. "It was good seeing you both again."

"It was good to see you too," Burt said and returned to reading his paper.

Kurt sat in silence for a moment, a challenge brewing behind his stormy eyes. Without turning his gaze from Blaine, he said, "Father, I'm going to see if the afternoon mail has arrived."

"My son is a lucky man," Burt said, his nose still buried in his paper. "Our young Miss Berry writes him nearly every day."

Kurt blinked rapidly, but did not otherwise acknowledge his father's words.

"I'm sure she misses him terribly," Blaine said, holding Kurt's gaze steadily. "It must be difficult to be apart from the one you love."

Kurt rose without looking away and crossed to the doors leading back inside. Blaine followed but did not speak until he was certain they were out of earshot of Kurt's father.

"Have you plans for after dinner?" he asked in a low voice.

"I suppose that depends on what you have in mind," Kurt replied. He smirked at Blaine; that teasing quality that he so adored made Blaine's heart flutter madly in his chest. If only Kurt knew what he wanted to say — and worse, do — he would surely run to the train depot and flee back to New York before the day was out. But it was the raised eyebrow that emboldened Blaine's words. He knew that Kurt enjoyed his company; the reasons why mattered little.

"Meet me in the lobby once your father has retired for the evening, and you'll find out," he teased.

"Do I not get even a small clue?" Kurt asked.

Blaine was about to respond when he saw Lucy Fabray enter the Solarium through the same entrance he had used earlier. She was accompanied by a member of the hotel staff who directed her to a table in a small patch of sun near the front windows. Her fair hair shone in the light as she craned her neck in search of Blaine. When she made eye contact, her face lit up and she gave him a small wave, as much as would be considered appropriate. He nodded in her direction and returned his attention to Kurt.

Leaning in close, he whispered, "You'll just have to take a chance. If you think you're up to it."

A tiny twitch of Kurt's eyebrow was to be Blaine's only clue that he might be intrigued by that idea before Kurt turned to exit the Solarium, leaving Blaine to join Lucy Fabray for tea.

"Mr. Anderson," she said as Blaine approached. "I hope you don't mind, but mother wasn't feeling well and father still hasn't gotten back from his treatment yet."

"Treatment?" Blaine asked as he took his seat. "I hope everything is all right?"

"Oh yes," she said, waving him off. "He's just got a touch of rheumatism. The doctor prescribed visits to the baths as a way to cleanse the system. Nothing serious."

"I didn't know they had bathhouses here in St. Augustine," Blaine said, unsure of why he was lying to her. He was fully aware of the baths.

"Oh yes," she replied. "At the Alcazar, across the street. They have an entire Casino — swimming pool, shops, a gymnasium, and, of course, the baths. It only costs 25 cents unless you're staying at the hotel."

She paused when a waiter arrived to deliver their tea. Lucy looked poised and practiced as she served them both, posture never faltering, her smile never wavering.

"So you haven't been yet?" Lucy asked as she held up a small cup of cream and gestured to Blaine questioningly.

"Not yet," he replied, waving a hand over his teacup. "Is it worth the 25 cents?"

She giggled at that and set the cream down on the tray. "Indeed, sir. They even have a separate swimming pool for the more _modest_ ladies."

Ah, flirting: something Blaine had a level of familiarity with. He leaned in and gave her his most charming smile.

"Are _you_ modest, Miss Fabray?"

She had the decency to blush at that, but Blaine also noticed her eyes darken. His obligation to court her might not be such a trial after all, he decided.

"Mother said since we were meeting in public, it's acceptable for the two of us to have tea alone. I think it would be best if we kept our conversation to more… appropriate topics."

"Pardon me if I'm being too forward, Miss Fabray," he said before she had a chance to respond. Blaine knew exactly how to play his part in this charade, and if he had to participate, he might as well be the one calling the shots.

"Please call me Quinn."

"Quinn?" Blaine enquired. "But I thought…"

"My first name is Lucy," she replied, "but my friends call me Quinn." Her eyelashes fluttered demurely as she toyed with the handle of her teacup. "Father says the Russian baths are quite nice."

Blaine's ears perked up at that. " _Russian_ baths you say?"

Quinn nodded. "He says after the steam bath they offer a massage and mineral water as well. He told mother it was most invigorating."

"I may have to try that out," he said, doubting that the Alcazar's baths could _invigorate_ him the same as the New York bathhouses did. Even so, it didn't stop him from wondering if Kurt would accompany him there. The idea of seeing Kurt scantily clad again made him anxious for the dinner hour so he could be in his company once more.

Quinn delicately lifted her cup to her lips and smiled warmly at Blaine. Her glance was playful and flirtatious but not too forward. She knew equally well how this game should be played and she was doing so expertly. Even asking him to call her by a nickname was a bold move.

But even as he flirted back, Blaine sipped his tea and imagined Kurt draped in little more than a towel and relaxing in the thick steam of the baths as the sweat dripped from his skin, dampening his thick, brown hair and causing it to droop charmingly over his forehead as it had at the beach. Blaine's skin tingled in anticipation at the thought, and the knowledge that he might have the opportunity to share such an intimate experience with Kurt had his mind reeling. He heaved a sigh that quickly drew him back to reality.

"So what sorts of things do you do for fun, Miss Fabray?" Blaine asked, doing his best to make conversation even as his mind tried to whirl off into decadent thoughts of worshipping Kurt's perfect body.

"I read a lot," she said breaking the final pieces of the fragile shell of Blaine's daydream. "Novels mostly. Mother thinks it's a waste of my time, but I can't help getting lost in the written word."

That was unexpected. Blaine scooted forward in his chair, excited to find yet another kindred spirit in the his love of literature.

"I'm a writer, you know," Blaine said.

"I didn't know that," Quinn said, resting her head in her hand and looking entirely like a besotted schoolgirl. Perhaps she was.

It reminded Blaine of Kurt in a way that he couldn't quite place and it upset him immensely. He didn't like Quinn usurping their private bond, wanting to keep that particular link close to his heart and away from the prying eyes of others.

"What are your other hobbies?" he asked, feeling as if he were begging for a change in subject. He hoped it didn't sound that way, not wanting to hurt the girl's feelings.

"Um," she began, only slightly rattled by the abrupt turn in their conversation, "botany?"

"Is that a question?"

Quinn's nervous laughter rang out and echoed through the high-ceilinged room. "No," she said. "I just… well, you changed the subject so quickly you see. It caught me quite unaware."

"My apologies," Blaine said, hoping she would leave the literature discussion be. "I just wanted to know more about you. Tell me about your botanical interests." He held up the teapot and gestured in her direction. She nodded and he poured more tea into her cup. She stirred it with a delicate silver spoon, a serene smile on her face as she looked thoughtful before answering.

"Have you noticed how all the flowers are already in bloom here?" she said. "It seems positively criminal when all our friends in New York will be huddled around their hearths warming their hands on a dying fire while we sit in the sun breathing in the orange blossoms."

"I know what you mean," he said. "I stepped off the train and immediately felt guilty for sweating."

Quinn's soft green eyes danced in the afternoon light, and Blaine couldn't help but smile at her. If he had to court young ladies as his mother requested, at least he had the good fortune of encountering one as intriguingly intelligent as Quinn Fabray.

"Miss Fabray," he said, biting into a cookie. "I believe we shall get along quite nicely, don't you?"

"Indeed I do, Mr. Anderson," she said.

When the tea had gone cold, Blaine escorted Quinn back to the lobby and decided to take a walk through town. He still had some time before he needed to dress for dinner and he wasn't keen on spending his free time being glared at by his grandfather.

He walked east toward the bayfront and past the shops that lined the plaza, wondering where Kurt was and if he was thinking of Blaine. His mind wandered to Oliver and lazy afternoons spent discussing their futures and how they would keep their love a secret.

He didn't know if Kurt would want to get involved, but he knew if they did, it would be a clandestine affair to be whispered about in private and hidden from the world. He wished, and not for the first time, that his life didn't need to be that way. He'd seen young men in New York for whom the rules didn't seem to apply – men who dressed as women and performed on stage or sold their bodies to men who had all the wealth they desired but who still couldn't reveal their true nature to their families; men who had wives and children and respectable businesses. Blaine hated them, the hypocrites who frequented the Bowery and then later, judged the men they made love to and scoffed at them on the streets. He refused to live like that. He would not hide his true self, even if he couldn't reveal the whole truth. Instead he chose to visit bathhouses and hire rent boys for the night, refusing to marry and always defending the Bohemian lifestyle.

It was a chance night out with his parents when he was home for the Christmas holidays that led Blaine to a lecture by Oscar Wilde almost 14 years prior, and it had changed him forever.

That night, Mr. Wilde had shocked his audience with his aesthetic demeanor and effeminate dress, but Blaine found it utterly intriguing, and even at just 12 years old, Blaine could appreciate the man's philosophy. As he spoke of Greek love and how little else mattered but the expression of one's art, Blaine found the poet could have been speaking of his own life. Despite his mother's disdain for the crowd that had attended the lecture, and possibly in spite of it, Blaine had worshipped the man as an artist ever since, and so it was no wonder he was so drawn to Kurt, who obviously appreciated the writer's work as well.

Blaine wondered again whether Kurt knew the hidden meaning in Mr. Wilde's words, and decided to ask him when they were once again alone. At the very least, he should be educated on the origins of what he was reading so as not to attract the wrong sort of person, Blaine reasoned. It didn't occur to him that he was the very type of person he professed to be protecting Kurt from.

As he headed back toward his grandfather's home to dress for dinner, he decided to take the long way round, through the hotel grounds and past the artists' studios.

He heard a familiar lilting voice drifting down from the balcony as he approached building that housed the artists' studios. He climbed the stairs and stopped in front of studio number one, leaning in to listen to Kurt ask for clarification in Mr. de Crano's instruction.

"Is this right?" he asked.

"A little more force on the top of the brush," an accented voice replied. "Yes, like that."

Blaine tilted his head to look through the open door and saw Kurt dressed more casually than he had seen him yet, a thin smock covering his white shirt and plain brown trousers. He was standing with his back to the door, sleeves rolled up as he worked on a small canvas. He looked to be painting a vase of flowers that was sitting on a table next to where Mr. de Crano stood guiding Kurt's movements.

"Not so much blue," de Crano said. "Or you'll make the shadows too purple. Remember the red and blue make the purple."

"Oh yes, I see," Kurt said, smiling as his brushstrokes came to life. The painting wasn't bad, but obviously created by an untrained hand. It contrasted with the skillful artwork that covered canvases adorning the walls and propped against table legs. Mr. de Crano was a busy man.

Kurt turned to face the painter, presenting his profile to Blaine who could just see a streak of yellow paint near the bridge of Kurt's prominent nose. Blaine bit his cheek to keep from laughing, but he also found himself wanting to wipe the smudge from Kurt's handsome face. His heart raced at the thought, and he ducked out of view just as Mr. de Crano turned toward the doorway.

"Something wrong?" Kurt asked.

"I thought I saw something," de Crano replied. "Or someone…"

"Oh?" Kurt said.

They both remained quiet for a moment before the painter said, "It was probably nothing. My old eyes playing tricks… back to work."

Kurt laughed and soon the sounds coming from the studio made it clear they were back to the lesson. Blaine leaned in to peer around the door again and saw that Kurt had his tongue caught between his teeth as he concentrated on his brush strokes. Blaine couldn't help it; he let out a quiet laugh. At the sound, Kurt's head snapped around, his neck craning toward the door just as Blaine ducked out of sight again.

"Did you hear that?" he said.

"Huh?"

"That sound," Kurt said. "It sounded like it came from the doorway."

Blaine heard footsteps nearing, but didn't have time to retreat, so he stood up straight and prepared to explain himself to Kurt, but instead he came face to face with the elderly painter. His eyes widened in shock as the man studied him for a moment. He opened his mouth as if to call out to Kurt, but Blaine held a finger to his lips in a silent plea as de Crano's eyes danced with mirth. He nodded once and tilted his head back into the studio.

"Nothing here, my young pupil," he said. "You must be hearing your muse at last."

And then the man was gone, leaving Blaine with only his own rapidly beating heart for company.

After that Blaine didn't dare linger near the studio any longer, so he made his way back to Markland, hoping Mr. de Crano wouldn't tell Kurt he'd been spying. He wasn't sure why he didn't want Kurt to know, but he felt as if he'd intruded on something intimate and Blaine hated to think he might have betrayed Kurt's confidence in that way.

His grandfather was already in his room dressing when Blaine entered the house, so he avoided any kind of lecture for the moment, but when he found a telegram laid on his writing desk, he sighed. It was from his mother. He opened it reluctantly and unfolded the crisp paper.

_Your grandfather tells me you are shirking responsibilities in favor of entertaining a mechanic's son. Need I remind you that I sent you to St. Augustine to find a wife? Please don't let your father down. -Mother_

Blaine balled up the note and flung it into the fireplace, wishing it made a more satisfying sound than a quiet whoosh as it hit the grate.

He knew why he was here; he didn't need constant reminders from his mother — or anyone else for that matter — to reinvigorate the guilt that had taken up permanent residence in the back of his mind. His every waking moment was filled with reminders that he needed to marry and fulfill his obligations to his family — well, until he fathered a child that is.

He sighed heavily and slumped down in his desk chair, resting his head in his hands. Why must this all be forced on him? Why couldn't he simply remain unmarried and still maintain his pride — and his inheritance? It didn't seem fair, nor did it make any rational sense. Many of his friends were unmarried — bachelorhood became more popular by the day it seemed — but his father would hear nothing of the sort. Blaine was both angry and saddened by the requirement and was losing his will to fight against it. Perhaps he could marry Miss Fabray and be done with the whole business. He was tired and no longer wished to argue with his family about his lifestyle. If he married, perhaps they would leave him be, ask fewer questions, and then he could be left alone to pursue his prurient interests.

Blaine wondered if there was any sort of reason he could manufacture to be in Kurt's company for extended periods of time. A convincing enough excuse could be a very convenient cover for their affair. If they were to have one.

"Mr. Blaine?"

Blaine looked up to see Jenkins standing in the doorway to his room. "Yes, Jenkins," he said. "Do come in."

"I just wanted to let you know that your grandfather says you'd be leaving for dinner in fifteen minutes. He wants you dressed and ready to go in ten."

Blaine sighed again and nodded. "Thank you."

Jenkins turned to leave but then paused. "Would you like some help dressing, Mr. Blaine?" he asked.

"I'd like some help escaping," Blaine replied.

Jenkins looked at him quizzically. "I'm not sure I understand, sir."

Blaine waved him off and said, "That's quite alright. I didn't mean anything. I can dress myself, but thank you for the offer."

Jenkins nodded and then was gone. Blaine heard his steady footsteps retreat down the hallway, and then it was quiet for a moment before he heard his grandfather's booming voice from the room next door, "And make sure he shines those confounded shoes!"

* * *

Dinner seemed to drag on even longer than the night before, and Blaine hadn't run into Kurt during the cocktail hour — assuming the young man was still cleaning up from his painting lesson. — so when he spotted him from across the dining room, he was unprepared for the way it made him feel. He wanted to run the length of the room and scoop Kurt up, escape to the nearest room and not emerge until they were both sated on each other's bodies.

The thought both shocked and aroused him, and he could feel the heat burning in his cheeks.

"Are you feeling well, Mr. Anderson?"

Blaine glanced up to meet Quinn Fabray's gaze. He cleared his throat and smiled at her. "Yes, Miss Fabray. I think I'm just not used to so much sunshine."

"It is a bit much," she said, obviously going for coquettish with the way she tilted her head down as she spoke. Blaine detested the way women were always deferring to men and acting as though they couldn't endure the simplest exertion. He knew full well what women were capable of, and didn't understand why more men didn't find the practice of hiding it as offensive as he did.

Blaine stabbed at his steak violently, biting his lip to keep from retorting. He felt his grandfather nudge his leg with his knee, but he didn't look up. He was infuriated and wanted dinner to be finished so he could spend some time with Kurt. His grandfather nudged him more forcefully, but Blaine still didn't look up, spearing a roasted carrot on his fork and chewing it slowly. He knew he was acting like a child, but he refused to comply, resolutely ignoring his dining companions for the remainder of the meal. He could feel the anger radiating off his grandfather, but did not acknowledge it.

When the ladies excused themselves after dinner, Blaine felt a harsh hand on his arm just above the elbow. His grandfather hissed in his ear, "What on earth has gotten into you? You're being rude and obstinate, and I won't have you embarrassing me in front of my friends."

Blaine tugged his arm forcibly from his grandfather's grip. "I guess I'm just not feeling well," he said through gritted teeth.

"Then maybe you should spend more time in your room," Dr. Anderson replied, "instead of running around with all sorts of people."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know very well what I mean," he said. "You flouncing about with that nancy boy and shoving it in everyone's face."

"Kurt. Is not. A nancy boy." Blaine seethed with anger, clenching his fists at his sides. He resisted with everything he had to keep from striking his grandfather.

"You certainly would know," his grandfather smirked.

"I don't appreciate what you're implying," Blaine said.

"I'm not implying anything that isn't being whispered behind your back all over New York, worrying your poor mother half to death and ruining your father's reputation. Don't think I don't know what you're up to running all over town at all hours of the night, being seen in the company of all those disgusting young men… in all sorts of establishments!"

Blaine could see his grandfather was fighting the urge to resort to fisticuffs himself, his nostrils flaring as his face reddened and his eyes blazed. It was that reaction more than anything that spurred Blaine on.

"This from a man who's set to marry a child!"

"How dare you," his grandfather hissed.

"How dare _you_ ," Blaine replied, pushing his chair in harder than was necessary. "Please make my excuses to Mr. Fabray. I'm going out."

"Where are you going?"

"That's none of your business," Blaine said. "But I'm sure you'll come up with something acceptable to tell your friends. Wouldn't want to ruin anyone's precious reputation."

He stormed out of the dining room, dodging the guests who were lingering near the exit and not even seeing when Kurt followed him with his gaze across the lobby and out the front doors.

* * *

Kurt shadowed Blaine as he made his way to the courtyard, looking like he might strike the next person who spoke to him. Atop the steps past the west loggia Blaine began to pace frantically, muttering to himself, but when Kurt stepped out of the shadows from where he'd been observing, Blaine froze with his eyes wide.

"Please tell me you didn't hear any of that," he said.

"Any of what?"

"Good," Blaine replied, exhaling a heavy breath.

"Any of what?" Kurt repeated.

"It's nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing," Kurt said, reaching out a soothing hand to rest on Blaine's shoulder. "Tell me."

Blaine sighed and his shoulders drooped. "Just an argument with my grandfather. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Why were you arguing?"

"It's a long story."

"I have time," Kurt said, ducking into Blaine's downcast eye line.

Blaine smiled, his eyes looking watery, but then suddenly squared his shoulders and straightened up.

"Let's not talk of such dismal things. I promised you a delightful evening, and I intend to keep that promise."

"Blaine…"

"Kurt, I'm fine. Really."

"You're not fine."

"I will be."

Kurt studied him for a moment, but his face gave nothing away. It was probably a lost battle, and Kurt didn't want to push. Deciding they could address that issue another day, he sighed and forced his lips into a smile for Blaine's sake.

"Alright then, what's this surprise you have planned?" he asked.

That must have done the trick because Blaine looked up at him and smiled.

"Follow me," he said, his eyebrows waggling as he smirked wickedly.

"Should I be worried?"

"Just trust me, will you?" he said, taking Kurt's hand in his and tugging him toward the front gate. They crossed the street and walked along the western side of the Hotel Alcazar. Blaine led him around to the back of the building and up a steep flight of stairs that led to the entrance to the hotel's entertainment complex, the Casino.

Blaine's hand closed around the door handle and pulled, but the door remained steadfastly in place.

"Is it closed?" Kurt asked, knowing the answer before the question had even fully formed. He had quickly learned that St. Augustine kept much different hours than New York. "I keep forgetting we're not in New York."

"I didn't know bathhouses closed," Blaine replied.

Kurt shrugged, he really wasn't all that familiar with bathhouses, and didn't know if Blaine knew the sorts of things he had heard about the ones in New York, so he stayed silent.

"I have an idea," Blaine said suddenly, "but you have to trust me."

Kurt blinked, considering the idea. It was the second time that night that Blaine had asked for his trust. Did he trust Blaine? In truth, they had only just met, and even if the things he had heard about Blaine's lifestyle were true, there was a part of him that didn't really mind. He knew plenty of men who did worse things than Blaine had been accused of. It didn't bother him nearly as much as it should have. In fact, it didn't bother him at all.

Blaine reached out his hand and smiled at Kurt, and in that instant, in the warm sunshine of Blaine's smile, he decided he would follow anywhere this man would lead him – even if it meant charging headlong off a cliff to his death. He trusted Blaine Anderson with his life.

He didn't reply, he simply put his hand in Blaine's and let himself be pulled around to the front of the building and into the hotel's lobby. Blaine marched right up to the front desk and rang the bell as if it were perfectly normal to expect service at this hour. The sound echoed brightly through the dimly lit room, and for several moments no one appeared.

When Kurt was about to suggest that they just head back to the Ponce to play billiards, a short, uniformed man with thinning hair rounded the corner and said, "Welcome to the Alcazar," he said. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"I seem to have left my pocket watch in one of the changing rooms in the Casino," Blaine said.

"I'm sorry, sir, but no one has turned anything in," the man behind the desk said.

"Might I borrow the key so that I can retrieve it? It's very important to me." Blaine paused and smiled, it was a charm that Kurt was quickly learning Blaine could turn on and off at a moment's notice.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir, but the Casino is closed for the evening. I can leave a note for the morning staff to be on the lookout–"

"That won't do," Blaine said. "It's a family heirloom, and if I lose it, my mother will never forgive me."

The man began to look flustered, his sympathy getting the better of him. Kurt admired Blaine's acting ability and had an idea.

"Perhaps we could speak with the manager," Kurt said.

"He's gone home for the evening, but I'm sure he'd say the same thing," the man reassured.

"Mr…" Kurt began.

"Robertson, sir."

"Mr. Robertson, certainly you understand our predicament. My friend Mr. Anderson is staying with his grandfather, Dr. Andrew Anderson — surely you know him."

"Yes, of course, sir. Everyone knows Dr. Anderson."

"Yes, well, I'm sure the manager wouldn't mind if you let Dr. Anderson's grandson search the changing rooms for a family heirloom."

"Mr. Anderson," Robertson said, turning to Blaine, "I would gladly let you search the changing rooms, but I'm the only one on duty, and I'm not allowed to leave my post."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of asking you to risk your job," Blaine said, looking genuinely concerned for the young man's employment, although Kurt doubted his sincerity. "But surely you could let us _borrow_ the key. You know I come from a good family, and Mr. Hummel is a guest at the Ponce. Certainly you can make an exception."

"Well, I–"

Blaine pulled two one-dollar silver pieces from his pocket and discreetly laid them on the counter. "Please," Blaine said.

Mr. Robertson's eyes went wide. Kurt could scarcely believe it. That was likely more money than he'd held in his hand that day — it was more money than Kurt had on his person at that very moment — but Blaine didn't even blink.

"I'll see if I can find the spare key," Mr. Robertson said, scooping up the coins and pocketing them swiftly.

When he was out of earshot, Kurt said, "I think you've ruined the poor man. His wife is going to think he's been robbing the hotel safe."

"Nonsense," Blaine said with a wave of his hand. "It's just a couple silver pieces."

"I bet it's more than that man makes in a week," Kurt said.

Blaine looked at him aghast.

"Do you really have no concept of money?" Kurt asked. Blaine hadn't struck him as the type to throw money around, but perhaps he had misjudged.

"I just didn't consider it to be a problem," Blaine said. "He has the key, and we need the key. I had two dollars to spare, and as it turns out, he needed the money."

His point was not lost on Kurt, but he wasn't entirely sure he understood Blaine's nonchalance about throwing his money around. Before he could voice his concerns, however, Mr. Robertson had returned with the key to the baths and a nervous look on his face.

"Mr. Anderson, I'm sure you wouldn't do anything dishonest or untoward, but I could lose my job, and–"

"Mr. Robertson," Kurt said. "We're going to look for the pocket watch and then bring the key right back to you. You have my word."

"As a gentleman," Blaine added.

"As a–?" A sharp elbow in his side from Blaine aborted his questioning words. Kurt simply stared at him, unsure what to say.

Mr. Robertson reluctantly gave them the key and pointed to a hallway behind him.

"You can use the staff entrance," he said. "But you need to bring that key right back."

"We will," Kurt reassured, not entirely certain of what Blaine had in mind, but fully intending to keep his word.

Blaine simply grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the hallway that Mr. Robertson had indicated.

"Why did you tell that man I was a gentleman?" Kurt asked when they were far enough away to not be overheard.

"Because you are," Blaine said, ushering Kurt through a large door marked "Alcazar and Casino staff only."

"I'm just an engineer's son," Kurt said.

The door closed behind them and they were swathed in darkness.

"Well, you _look_ like a gentleman."

Kurt looked down at his body, even though he could no longer make out details in the dim light, and suddenly remembered he was still wearing his most formal suit.

"I–"

Blaine stopped short and turned to face Kurt in the darkened hallway, grabbing him firmly by the shoulders. "You need to start acting the part, Kurt. No one will know but you that you don't belong unless you tell them."

Kurt nodded, just barely able to make out the golden irises of Blaine's eyes.

"Now, I just need to find…" Blaine said twirling about as his eyes roved the walls. "The lights!" he exclaimed as he pushed the switch.

Suddenly the room was awash in soft, yellow light.

"I still can't get over that," Kurt said, gazing around in awe. "We don't have electricity in our house."

"I thought everyone in New York had been wired for electric lights," Blaine said, looking more curious than shocked.

"Not everyone," Kurt muttered almost under his breath. "I'm still afraid to turn them on."

Blaine gawked at him.

"We have an attendant to do that for us at the Ponce," Kurt said.

Laughter echoed around the ballroom. "You have an att– Kurt. That's–"

"Ridiculous?" Kurt said. "I know." He knew it was silly of him, the son of an electrical engineer, to fear the tiny button that you pushed to engage the lights, but he had heard stories from his father of men being killed after touching electricity, and the very thought terrified him.

"No, it's not," Blaine said. "I was going to say, that's the most charming thing I've ever heard."

Kurt was glad that only some of the Casino's hundreds of electric lights were lit, because if it had been any brighter, surely Blaine would have seen the high flush that now colored his cheeks. Blaine held his gaze for a moment, and the air seemed to thicken between them. It was a feeling Kurt had never experienced before — this overwhelming sensation that something important and possibly life-changing was about to happen — and he wasn't entirely sure what it meant, but he could see that Blaine's breathing was becoming labored, and he could feel his own heart racing.

"We should get the key back," Kurt blurted.

"Right... yes, of course."

Kurt made to return the way they had come, but Blaine was still looking around.

"What are you doing?" Kurt asked.

"Trying to find the exterior door we tried earlier," Blaine said. "It should be on the south side of the building. I've gotten so turned around." He spun around a few times and drew a winding line in the air. "Should be…. That way," he said, pointing over Kurt's shoulder.

They walked down a level to the pool area, and found a locked door that led to the outside. Blaine used the key Mr. Robertson had given them and found that it worked on this door as well. He grinned over his shoulder at Kurt and left the door unlocked.

"Now we can give our dear Mr. Robertson his key."

Finally Kurt understood what Blaine meant to do.

"You are positively wicked, Blaine Anderson."

"I've been called worse." He winked then, beckoning Kurt to follow him back to the lobby.

Retreating down the dark hallway again, Kurt smiled to himself. Blaine was an enigma: the perfect gentleman in public and an absolute scamp in private. The excitement he felt just being around this man was enough to make his palms sweat and his heart thump wildly in his chest.

As they reemerged in the lobby, Kurt realized he had no idea what Blaine was going to say about the watch, but before he could ask, Mr. Robertson appeared in front of them.

"There you are," he said. "Did you find your watch, sir?"

"Yes, I did," Blaine said, tugging his watch chain from his pocket. "Right where I left it. Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Robertson."

"My pleasure, Mr. Anderson. Good evening to you both."

Kurt turned away, concealing his face behind a potted palm and biting his lip to keep from laughing out loud. He soon felt a tug on his sleeve and followed Blaine from the lobby and around to the exterior door leading to the Casino, now blissfully unlocked.

Blaine smiled wickedly as he led Kurt inside, the room still lit dimly by the upper level's electric lights and glinting off the still water of the swimming pool. Kurt finally had the chance to look around and take it all in. This was, after all, his first trip to the Casino and he wanted to remember it.

The water in the pool looked ominous in the low light, and although Kurt knew it was warm, a steady 80 degrees, it looked cold and unforgiving. The sulfur smell was weaker than he had expected, having heard it was as offensive as the fountain in the courtyard, but maybe Kurt's nose had gotten used to the smell because Blaine's nose crinkled as he inhaled.

"Well, at least it's warm," he said, stepping closer to Kurt, who suddenly felt warm himself.

"Did you know the water in the pool comes from an artesian well that's nearly 1,500 feet deep? Oh and look, there's the private women's pool," he said, pointing out the area to one side where women could swim more discreetly. "Rachel would like that. She always says it's best if a lady keeps her womanly figure well hidden and only reveals it to her husband." Kurt knew he was rambling but he couldn't stop it. "My mother always said it's healthy for a woman to bare her ankles every now and again. We used to go to the seashore and stick our toes in the sand every year once it got warm enough."

"Kurt…" Blaine interrupted finally.

"Yes?"

Kurt glanced back at Blaine who pointed to his feet. Kurt looked down and realized he was standing very close to the pool now, his toes precariously hanging over the edge, and he reeled back so suddenly he almost fell in.

Blaine's laughter echoed through the Casino, and once Kurt's heart left his throat, he joined in.

"I should have just let you fall in," Blaine said as he tried to catch his breath.

"You wouldn't!"

"Oh wouldn't I?" Blaine teased, inching slowly closer to Kurt his hands outstretched as if he were going to push Kurt in the calm water.

"No," Kurt said, crossing his arms resolutely over his chest. Somehow he knew that Blaine wouldn't really, not at least without Kurt taking Blaine with him.

"You're right," Blaine said, lowering his arms. "I couldn't bring myself to ruin such an expertly tailored suit." He gestured up and down Kurt's body.

"I fitted it myself," Kurt said proudly.

Blaine raised an eyebrow and looked impressed.

"I make all my own clothes, usually," Kurt said, "but when we found out we were coming here, I needed a more formal suit for dinner. So I tailored this one from Rachel's father's things."

"You did an exquisite job," Blaine said, reaching out to feel the fabric.

Kurt's heart raced, and he wasn't sure if he imagined it, but he thought he could feel Blaine's touch through two layers of cotton and wool. It burned like fire and sent a jolt through his body in a not at all unpleasant way. Blaine let his hand linger a second too long and then drew it back too suddenly. Kurt couldn't meet his eye. He was afraid what he was feeling would be written all over his face. Instead he turned and let his eyes roam the room.

"So should we go swimming?" he said. "Or did you have something else in mind?"

Blaine cleared his throat loudly. "Um… well, I thought that… Well, that is…" he stammered.

"Yes?" Kurt said, spinning around to look at Blaine.

"Well, would you perhaps like to try the Russian baths?"

"Can we do that without someone to control the steam?"

"I've seen it done," Blaine said. "Their system can't be too much different than the one at Everard's."

"Everard's?" he said, shocked that Blaine might be familiar with _that_ place. "The one in New York?"

"You've been there?" Blaine asked, swallowing hard as his golden eyes rounded in shock.

"Well, I've heard of it," Kurt said, fidgeting nervously. He knew what sorts of things were rumored to go on at the Everard baths, and he could scarcely believe what Blaine was implying.

"Kurt, I…" Blaine trailed off.

"It's okay. I um… I won't tell," he said.

At Kurt's words, Blaine's face fell, and he looked disappointed somehow. Kurt didn't want him thinking that he was against that sort of lifestyle, but he wasn't sure what to say. What if Blaine assumed he was interested? What if he was? "And I won't judge," he added hastily.

Blaine blinked at him for a few moments, as if he were weighing his words carefully before he spoke.

"You don't think less of me?" he asked finally.

Kurt considered his question for a moment. He definitely didn't think there was anything wrong with Blaine dallying with men. He wasn't disgusted by it, nor did he think it a sin against God or nature.

"I think you're still the same man you were five minutes ago," Kurt said smiling. "And I think I'd still like to try those steam baths."

Blaine looked shocked for a moment before his mouth broke into a huge grin.

"I knew I'd win you over," Blaine said.

"Oh, stop," Kurt said. "If it weren't for me, you'd still be begging Mr. Robertson for the key to this place."

"Very true," Blaine said as he led the way to the dressing rooms. "You're my partner in crime now, Kurt. No escaping. If I end up in jail, you will too."

Kurt laughed and shoved playfully at Blaine's shoulder, ignoring the frantic fluttering of his insides as they bantered with one another. But the idea flitted about in his mind while they both changed into their towels and Blaine set about adding water and coal to the steamer. His peculiar reactions to Blaine's presence were tallied on a mental list as Kurt tried to fit the puzzle pieces together in his mind.

Perhaps his nervousness every time he was in the same room as Blaine was more than just excitement at making a new friend. What if Kurt was the same as Blaine: a man who preferred the company of other men, and a strong muscled torso to the curve of a delicate hip? That would easily explain why he loved Rachel but did not have the desire to undress her and have his way with her the way other men professed to want to do with their fiancées. It all seemed to fit, but Kurt couldn't understand why he hadn't considered it before.

When he stepped into the steam bath, the room was already obscured with thick moisture and he could barely see the walls, let alone make out Blaine's small shape among the mist.

"Kurt?"

"Where are you?"

"Follow my voice," Blaine said.

Kurt made his way across the room carefully, gripping his towel tightly around his waist as his heartbeat thudded in his ears. When Blaine's face came into view, Kurt could see his trepidation plain on his features, and somehow that made Kurt relax a little.

He sat down on a stone bench next to Blaine and allowed himself to lean back against the wall, his breath leaving his body in a rush as he exhaled. Neither of them spoke for a few moments, but Kurt was too lost in his own thoughts to mind. He breathed deeply, letting the warm steam envelop him; it seemed to permeate his skin and pull his thoughts from his body, one agonizing revelation at a time.

In some part of his mind, Kurt had always known he wasn't attracted to women. It was one of the reasons he had asked Rachel to marry him; she never judged him or questioned him when he didn't share the same interests as boys his own age. She simply complimented him on not being like "those other boys" and told him he was better than all of them because of it.

He smiled thinking of Rachel. Sweet, loving, loud, and very, very bossy, Rachel. He sighed and turned his head to face Blaine.

"This is wonderful," he said, watching Blaine's face carefully.

It took a second or two, first a twitch and a slight furrowing of his brow, but then Blaine's lips curled up, and his eyes crinkled and he was smiling at Kurt, just like he had before. Everything suddenly felt right. Like he was meant to always look on Kurt with such affection. He tried to give Blaine his most reassuring look, but wasn't sure it came across because Blaine closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the slick marble. Kurt continued to study Blaine's face, hoping for a sign, anything that might tell him what Blaine was thinking. Kurt ached with desire to know, and he opened his mouth several times to ask before clamping it shut.

When Blaine reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow, Kurt watched as the muscles of his arm flexed with the movement. When Blaine returned his hand to his lap, Kurt studied his torso while it rose and fell with his breath. Blaine's midsection was defined but lacked the kind of bulky muscles his father had from working with heavy machinery his whole life. Blaine's body was well cared for, but he was built like a man who hadn't needed to work and only got his exercise from sporting activities. His skin was a deeper shade than Kurt's own, and he found it intrigued him.

Kurt's breath began to come in shallow pants as he lowered his eyes to Blaine's towel and quickly averted his gaze to the man's bare legs. A dark swath of hair peppered his thighs and Kurt could just barely make out the outline of Blaine's feet.

He was just a man, Kurt decided, but he was most definitely more interested in Blaine's angular body than he was in Rachel's more rounded one.

"I can practically _hear_ you thinking," Blaine said without opening his eyes.

Kurt inhaled slowly and let his breath out slower still.

"It's just what you said earlier…"

Blaine opened one eye and turned his head to face Kurt.

"About the argument with your grandfather," Kurt continued, "and then what you said about the baths."

Blaine raised his eyebrow.

"Were they related?" Kurt asked, his voice coming out breathy and high.

Blaine closed his eye again and took a deep breath.

"Yes."

"So you…?"

"Enjoy the company of men, yes."

"And your grandfather doesn't approve?"

Blaine's eyes flew open and he leveled Kurt with a chastising look.

"Of course he doesn't approve," Blaine said, making Kurt feeling stupid and very small for a moment.

"What I meant to say is… he knows?" Kurt clarified.

"He's heard idle gossip," Blaine said. "He's just worried about what other people will say."

Kurt nodded slowly. He knew all too well the damage idle chatter could do. He'd seen it ruin more than one life even among his small social circle.

Kurt paused and considered Blaine for a moment. What if there had been gossip about him and Blaine? Maybe others had seen what he hadn't.

"Do you think I'm like you?" Kurt asked, unsure where his sudden boldness was coming from.

Blaine turned his body to face Kurt fully. His knee brushed Kurt's, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Are you?" Blaine asked. His eyes flickered with something indefinable. Kurt considered his question for a moment.

"I'm not sure," Kurt said honestly. "How does one know for sure?"

Blaine studied Kurt's face for a moment, his eyes open and earnest, like he was deciding something.

"You could let me kiss you," Blaine said finally.

Kurt's intake of breath sounded magnified in the quiet steam room.

"I…" he began.

"Just one kiss," Blaine whispered, his face inching closer to Kurt's. "If you don't like it, I swear I'll never speak of it again."

Kurt could feel Blaine's breath hot on his face, somehow warmer than the steam around them and his eyes fluttered closed. He could hear nothing but his own breathing and the steady thump of his heart. He wondered if Blaine could hear it too.

"Kurt?"

He wasn't entirely sure what Blaine was asking, but he nodded, refusing to open his eyes. He couldn't explain it, but he suddenly needed Blaine to kiss him; he needed to know if what he was feeling was true. If it was simply a passing fancy or a life-altering fact.

But then Blaine's lips were touching his, and nothing else mattered. Kurt felt as if he was finally getting the first true breath of his life, a giant gulp of air that made its way through every part of his body in one single instant. As his hand shot up to touch Blaine's face and will him closer, Kurt swore he could feel a chuckle deep in Blaine's chest as it struggled to get out, but he didn't care. He wanted more, forever and always. He wanted this man like nothing he'd ever desired before.

That realization struck him like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head and he pulled back suddenly. He slapped his hand over his mouth and stared wide-eyed at Blaine.

"Kurt," Blaine began, laying a warm hand on Kurt's bare shoulder. "I'm sorry. Are you–"

Kurt held up a hand to silence him.

"It's fine," he said. "I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Shall we try it again?" Blaine asked, looking equal parts anxious and hopeful.

Kurt nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and Blaine leaned forward to kiss him once more. This time Kurt was prepared for it and took the opportunity to consider the feeling of Blaine's mouth on his. It felt soft and strong in a way he hadn't quite expected, but yet it didn't shock him, as if that was exactly how he had expected Blaine's lips to feel.

When Blaine's hand came up to rest on the back of Kurt's neck, he leaned into it, savoring the gentle touch and willing it to go on forever. But all too soon, Blaine was pulling away and Kurt was opening his eyes and they were staring at each other as if it were the first time they had really seen each other. Perhaps it was.

"That was…" Kurt said.

"Perfect."

"It was."

"So tell me, Kurt," Blaine said. "Do you know for sure now?"

"Know what?" Kurt asked, his eyebrows raised in intrigue.

"If you're like me."

"What do you think?" Kurt said, and leaned in to kiss Blaine again.


	6. Chapter 6

Blaine opened his eyes to find Kurt's blue-green depths staring back at him. They grinned shyly at each other, an expression that was at odds with their present state of undress. Under the soft scrutiny Blaine felt suddenly exposed, yet he didn't know what to do to feel more covered up, fearing any movement he made would make Kurt uncomfortable too. But he could already see Kurt beginning to fidget, so he leaned forward and kissed him again.

It seemed as though the whole situation made more sense if they were touching in some way. Blaine threaded his hand through Kurt's thick hair and let Kurt's elegant fingers stroke his jawline. There was so much sensation to savor, and he felt nearly drunk with it.

"Blaine," Kurt said, the name sounding sinful on his lips.

"Yes?"

"What happens now?"

With reluctance, Blaine pulled back and took in Kurt's expression, a warring mix of desire and confusion. It had to be puzzling for Kurt, not knowing just moments before that he was attracted to men at all, and suddenly here he was kissing Blaine, half naked in a steam room.

"What would you like to happen?" Blaine asked, taking Kurt's hands in his own, turning them over and kissing his palms. Blaine knew what he wished to happen, but he needed to know where Kurt stood.

"I… well, I hadn't given that much thought, really," Kurt said. "But I like kissing you."

Blaine couldn't help his smile. "And I, you."

"But how do we do… this?" Kurt said. "I mean us. How does this work?"

The question was surprisingly direct, and not for the first time, Blaine found himself admiring how Kurt seemed so able to keep his feet under him even as the ground had to be shaking beneath them. He took a deep breath and let it out with a short laugh. "You think I do this every day?" he asked, realizing Kurt probably believed some of the rumors, some of which, in all honesty, were true.

Kurt shook his head in disagreement. "You know how to be discreet, though."

"Indeed I do." He paused briefly, taking in Kurt's determined expression. As much as he wanted Kurt, as much as the very thought made his heart race, he needed Kurt to know what this type of lifestyle entailed. So many secrets and rarely, if ever, being able to be himself. "Is that what you want, Kurt? A clandestine love affair that you can never speak of?"

Kurt's expression turned colder then, his face dark and worried as he mulled over Blaine's question. In truth, Blaine expected him to say no, assuming Kurt would never be able to commit to someone like him, not when the commitment was to heartbreak. But perhaps Kurt was naïve enough that he didn't fully understand that yet.

The response came slowly, every agonizing second pumping fresh anxiety through Blaine's veins, but finally Kurt raised his gaze to meet Blaine's, his expression sure and steady. "It wouldn't be my first choice, no. But if it's all I can have… then, yes. I want that with you."

Blaine exhaled a ragged breath in relief, at Kurt's reply, but he still needed Kurt to understand exactly what they were about to do. "It won't be easy to find time together," Blaine said. "My grandfather is practically in my pocket these days about finding a wife."

"So you'll continue to court Miss Fabray," Kurt said matter-of-factly.

"And you'll stay betrothed to Miss Berry."

Kurt nodded, a smile breaking through the solemn expression that mirrored Blaine's own. Suddenly, he ducked his head shyly, looking completely innocent and thoroughly enticing at the same time.

"Will you teach me?" he asked, the words barely a whisper and practically lost in the thick steam.

"Teach you?" Blaine asked. "You mean…"

"About 'Greek' love," Kurt said, using Oscar Wilde's term and finally putting to rest Blaine's doubts as to whether Kurt knew the writer's true meaning.

"You assume I know all about it."

"Don't you?"

Blaine laughed, a deep, hearty belly laugh. It felt good, better than he'd felt in weeks. Kurt shoved at his arm playfully.

"I might have some experience in that area, yes," Blaine said, trying to calm his laughter as he took in Kurt's irritated expression.

"So share your experiences with me," Kurt said, pleading with stormy blue eyes. "I only just learned that it's something I'd like to try."

Blaine cleared his throat as Kurt inched closer to him again. "I think you have learned quite a bit already," he said, swallowing heavily.

Looking the very picture of innocent seduction, Kurt replied, "I don't know. I think there's more you can teach me." He leaned in and brushed his lips lightly against Blaine's, a brief, soft caress that aroused Blaine in ways he hadn't felt in some time. He leaned his forehead against Kurt's and closed his eyes.

"We'll simply have to spend as much time as we can between now and the end of the season on your education then, Mr. Hummel."

"Indeed we shall," Kurt replied, again pressing soft kisses to Blaine's lips as Blaine happily let himself drown in Kurt's presence.

* * *

After that night, everything seemed to burn with more color, texture and light. It was as if something inside him had cracked wide open and was finally shining through him, illuminating the world around him and beating the shadows back from his life. The very air around him seemed perfumed with anticipation — and the rich scent of curry.

"You're going to choke if you keep shoveling it in like that," Kurt teased.

Blaine glanced down at his plate and realized his appetite had also returned in full force. The plateful of crab Creole that he was devouring in a most ungentlemanly manner was more than half gone, leaving a small pool of pinkish-yellow sauce in its wake. He looked up at Kurt and winked, savoring the bright smile he got in return. He could eat slower if that was what Kurt wanted.

Blaine had agreed to join Kurt in the Ponce's dining room for lunch that Friday afternoon, content to steal glances across the table while they pretended to the world that they were nothing more than acquaintances with nowhere else to be. And for the moment, they didn't.

"It's a shame your father couldn't join us," he said, setting down his fork and not meaning a word of what he'd said.

"Indeed," Kurt replied. "I would have also liked to dine with the Fabrays."

"Or my grandfather."

"Well, now I know we're both lying," Kurt said with a laugh that Blaine freely joined in.

"You've found me out, Mr. Hummel."

Kurt's father had accepted an invitation from the widow Hudson to join her and some friends for lunch at the San Marco Hotel and Blaine's grandfather was caught up in wedding preparations. The Fabrays had gone to visit Quinn's aunt in Savannah for the weekend, leaving Blaine free to enjoy Kurt's company.

But even if their usual companions hadn't been occupied, they still might have tried to find a way to spend more time in each other's company.

Blaine had spent the past few days feeling as if he were floating on a cloud, his elation at Kurt's affections for him being confirmed an ever-present brightness shining on him. Kurt's easy smile was just a reminder of that.

"Do you ever wonder why they put that last line on the menu?" Kurt asked, gesturing to where it read "The water used in Hotel Ponce de Leon for drinking and culinary purposes, is Distilled and absolutely Pure."

"Perhaps it's that sulfur smell," Blaine replied. "I'm sure some stuffy old widow complained that her tea smelled like sulfur and insisted it had aggravated her allergies or some such nonsense."

Kurt giggled as Blaine rambled. He looked beautiful laughing like that.

Blaine had also spent the past few days studying Kurt's every movement, each hitch of his breath, the subtle affection in his smile, the bright lilt of his laughter that was only present when they were alone. All of it took on new meaning in the wake of their confessions; lately, even his grandfather's criticisms couldn't sour his mood.

"I like making you laugh," Blaine said, trying to look nonchalant as he sipped his tea. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Kurt's face had gone nearly scarlet from embarrassment, and just loud enough for Kurt to hear, he added, "I also like making you blush."

"Stop," Kurt said, nudging his knee under the table. "People can hear you."

He glanced around them furtively, but everyone was engrossed in their own conversations, typically self-absorbed and unable to see what was right before them. It was just as it had been since Blaine was a boy.

"We have nothing to worry about, Kurt."

"All the same, I think we should stick to more suitable topics."

"You sound like Quinn," Blaine said.

"She might be smarter than I thought."

"Be nice," Blaine said. "She's a lovely young woman."

"Who's being courted by my…"

"Your what?"

"Nevermind," Kurt said, waving a hand in his direction.

"Your lover?" Blaine whispered, causing Kurt's face to flush again. With a soft chuckle, Blaine chuckled softly and took a bite of potatoes, chewing carefully and swallowing before dabbing at his mouth and changing the subject. "Fine," he said, "we can talk about something else. My grandfather's wedding, perhaps? It's in less than two weeks."

"So soon? I heard he and Miss Smethurst only got engaged last August."

"Yes, well, what grandfather wants, grandfather gets," Blaine said with a nonchalant shrug. "I don't think the Smethursts were in any position to refuse Dr. Andrew Anderson."

"You sound so pompous, Blaine."

Blaine shook his head with some vehemence. "Not me… him."

"Will you escort Quinn?" Kurt asked.

All according to plan, Blaine had continued to court Quinn Fabray even after he'd pledged himself to Kurt — afternoon tea, dinners with her family, escorting her to events around town — and Kurt was fully aware it was the way it had to be. Even so, Blaine spent the rest of his time with Kurt. They went sailing again and bicycling; they read books together and went on long walks and shared their dreams and fears… and they kissed. Oh, how they kissed.

They spent untold hours wrapped in each other's arms, jumping at every loud noise as they hid in darkened rooms or stole away to secluded spots in the city. They visited the baths during the daytime and borrowed the Smethurst's tiny sailboat twice, all without rousing suspicion. So he had to keep up the charade.

"Most likely," Blaine said, feeling less than thrilled at the prospect. "You and your father should come."

"Don't you think your grandfather would mind?"

"Only if you show up at the church. But you can come to the party afterwards. He might rent out the ballroom in the Alcazar's casino. Can you imagine waltzing around that pool under the glow of all those lights?"

Kurt closed his eyes. "It would be heaven," he said, "if only I could dance with you."

Blaine understood Kurt's lament. He longed to tell the world how he felt about Kurt Hummel, and even more lovely, that Kurt felt the same. He tried to focus on that and leave the painful longing for another day. How they felt was all that mattered, and theirs was an all-consuming passion that left Blaine yearning to find a way to show Kurt just how much passion they could share. Unfortunately, finding time to truly be alone was rare, and he knew he wanted hours to spend worshipping Kurt's body.

"Don't be sad, my sweet," he said for himself almost as much as for Kurt. "We'll still get to talk, and afterward, my grandfather will be gone for nearly a month. We'll have the entire house to ourselves after Jenkins leaves each night."

Kurt's blush looked as if it extended all the way to his toes, leaving no doubt that Kurt understood the intent behind Blaine's words.

"You expect me to just come to your bed?" Kurt whispered, looking only a little scandalized. "I'm not a rent boy, you know."

Blaine set down his fork and looked Kurt squarely in the eye. He fought the temptation to take Kurt's hand, flexing his own against his thigh even as he watched Kurt's fingers curl around nothing before settling beside his plate and rapping out a haphazard rhythm on the table.

"Kurt, nothing will happen that you're not completely comfortable with. I promise."

Kurt stilled his movements, his index finger raised in the air midway through its most recent beat, and smiled sweetly.

"Thank you," he said and picked up his fork.

As they continued their meal in companionable silence, Blaine couldn't recall feeling this content in all of his 25 years, and he never wanted it to end.

"What time are you meeting with Mr. Flagler?"

Blaine pulled out his watch and opened it, glancing down at the crystal face.

"I have about twenty minutes," he said.

Kurt sighed. "It's never going to be enough, is it?"

Blaine knew what he meant. There weren't enough hours in the day to spend together, especially not with his ever-growing list of obligations. Even so, Blaine had hoped that when they returned to New York at the end of March that Kurt would want to continue their affair, but he'd been afraid to ask.

"I don't see how it could be," he said, growing wistful and almost daring to beg Kurt to be with him always. But he couldn't do it here, not now.

So it remained unspoken, as it had since their first profession in the baths, and they switched to discussion of Oscar Wilde's upcoming play in London and whether Walt Whitman's poetry was one giant reference to Greek love.

When they had finished their dessert and tea — served with the sweetest fresh oranges Blaine had ever tasted — Kurt sat back in his chair and took the cigarette Blaine offered.

He suddenly realized that Kurt was beginning to look more and more relaxed around the high society crowd, and it warmed Blaine's heart that he might have had something to do with that. Then again, Kurt was so determined to be a part of their world, he'd likely do so with or without their acceptance. Blaine wished he could eschew opinions as easily.

"I really should go," he said, stubbing out his cigarette and placing his napkin on the table.

"When will I see you next?" Kurt asked as he did the same.

Blaine didn't know. He had his appointment with the hotel's owner and then he'd promised his grandfather he'd be home for afternoon tea, and then there was dinner.

As Blaine made his way across the dining room toward the exit, he could hear Kurt's solid footfalls behind him. He wanted to turn around and look, but he didn't want to draw attention. When he stopped in the doorway to let a trio of women pass, he felt Kurt's body nearly pressed against his back.

"Meet me after dinner," Kurt said, his breath tickling the nape of Blaine's neck.

He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments and let the sensation wash over him, savoring it as if it might never come again. When he opened his eyes, Kurt was three steps in front of him, but he replied anyway.

"Always."

Kurt didn't turn around or otherwise acknowledge that he had heard, but Blaine could tell simply by the set of his shoulders that he was smiling.

* * *

As luck would have it, he and Kurt found themselves alone in the Parlor that night after all the ladies had retired and the men were gathered in the smoking room.

Kurt was standing next to the fireplace, arms crossed over his chest as he watched the embers flicker and fade into charred ash. Blaine crossed to him and reached out to graze Kurt's left hand where it rested on his right arm. With a warm smile, Kurt turned to meet his gaze, leaning ever so slightly into the touch.

In light of that silent welcome, Blaine took the liberty of entwining his fingers with Kurt's. "Come sit with me," he invited, and Kurt complied without hesitation.

Blaine sat down on the piano bench, his fingers itching to tickle the keys and make them sing out a dozen melodies he'd felt bubbling under the surface since he'd met Kurt.

"Do you play?" Kurt asked as he seated himself next to Blaine.

"When the mood strikes."

Kurt's resolute gaze pierced through Blaine. "Play for me now," he commanded, soft and low, and Blaine could only obey.

He stretched his fingers and adjusted himself on the piano bench so his feet could reach the pedals. As he began to play, he could feel the melody burning through him like a fire and rolling off him like ocean waves. He was a man possessed, the haunting music echoing through the empty, cavernous room. The onyx clock over the fireplace chimed once to indicate the half hour, but Blaine kept playing, unable to stop the force from within him.

Kurt watched him intently as if he were trying to solve a puzzle in Blaine's eyes. As the tune came to a close, Blaine itched to kiss him, but he couldn't risk it in a public room. He settled for the next best thing.

"Sing with me," Blaine implored. His fingers played a few soft chords of a popular tune and Kurt smiled.

" _Bright lights were flashing in the grand ballroom, softly the music playing sweet tunes. There came my sweetheart, my love, my own, 'I wish some water; leave me alone.' When I returned, dear, there stood a man, kissing my sweetheart as lovers can. Down fell the glass, pet, broken, that's all—Just as my heart was after the ball."_

When the final notes trailed off, Blaine sat frozen, his hands hovering idly over the keys. He could not will his body to move. Kurt's voice had him feeling as if he were cast in iron and bolted to the floor beneath them. His vision blurred from tears that had begun to form; he was stunned, incredulous at the beauty what he had just heard.

"Blaine, are you alright?" Kurt asked, a comforting hand on Blaine's shoulder.

"Your voice is like a violin," Blaine said. "All taut and gorgeous and soaring over everything else like you can't be bothered to fit into the orchestra like an ordinary clarinet or horn."

Kurt lowered his head in shyness at Blaine's praise. "You flatter me needlessly," he teased. "I already know how you feel about me."

Blaine reached out and lifted Kurt's chin, turning his head to face him. "It's beautiful," he said. "If I could, I'd have you sing for me always." He leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss to the tip of Kurt's nose.

Kurt closed his eyes, and Blaine wished to carry the kiss further, but they were too exposed in the parlor, especially because the sound of the piano would have carried out into the hallway. Someone could come along any moment. They stayed as close as they dared for little more than a few seconds, willing the quiet moment to endure infinitely.

"I just adore that song," Kurt said as he opened his eyes to reveal a wistful expression. "My mother used to sing it to me."

"Oh darling," Blaine said, wishing he could hold Kurt in his arms and quash every last bit of sadness from his life.

"It's all right; I don't mind it," Kurt said. "It's a good memory."

Blaine smiled at his sincerity, glad they could talk about something so close to Kurt's heart. He laid his hand over Kurt's where it rested on the piano bench, stroking Kurt's fingers with his thumb. "Tell me more about her," he said, with a small squeeze of Kurt's hand.

"She would have liked you," Kurt said, glancing down at their joined hands. "She would have wanted to read your writing. My father would have told her to mind her own business and she would have said, 'Burt, let the boy make up his own mind.' "

Blaine laughed.

"How do you know she would have said _that_?"

"Because it's what she always said to him about me."

Kurt's eyes were deep pools of blue when he looked at Blaine. Everything Kurt felt was laid bare before him in that moment. It was pure, unadorned trust, which Blaine knew didn't come lightly or without a price. There was always a debt to be paid for letting someone so close to your heart, and he hoped there was never a need to collect because he knew it would break him. But in that moment at least, Kurt carried the light of summer in his eyes, and Blaine always wanted to be under its spell. He was convinced there was never a more beautiful sight than the man before him.

"I wish I could have met her," Blaine said sincerely.

"Me too."

Kurt was quiet after that, probably lost in memories of his mother. Blaine wanted to help him remember somehow, so he began to ask questions.

"What was her favorite book?"

" _Alice in Wonderland_ ," Kurt said without hesitation. "She read it to me at least once a year until she became ill. I haven't read it since."

"Why not?"

Kurt shrugged. "It didn't seem right without her," he said.

Kurt's lifted his free hand to the piano, his fingers dancing over the keys in a tuneless pattern. Blaine watched as his eyes filled with tears and he blinked them back.

"Personally, I always preferred _Through the Looking Glass_ ," he said after a moment, redirecting the conversation with the hope of keeping Kurt's melancholy at bay. "The chess theme made more sense to me."

Kurt reached up to brush away a single tear, a tiny laugh bubbling up in its wake. "It's not supposed to make sense," he chuckled. "And anyway, you understood that _Jabberwocky_ poem?"

"What's to understand? It's utter nonsense," Blaine said with a grin. "That's what makes it so _fun_."

"You're impossible."

"And yet you continue to find yourself in my company. What does that say about you?"

Kurt tossed his head back and grinned. "It says I'm a lunatic who should be locked up for his own good."

"I like this idea," Blaine said. "I'll lock you up and throw away the key, and then I can have you all to myself until the end of time."

"What shall I do to keep busy?"

"I have ideas," Blaine said with a leer that made Kurt blush. "And I've always wanted a personal tailor."

"Is that all I am to you?"

"Oh no, Kurt," Blaine said earnestly. "You're a great deal more. You're… well…"

"What?" Kurt asked expectantly.

"Everything."

Kurt gaped at him then, looking unsure of what to say. His face was a bemused combination of joy and adoration. It suited him.

"Why must there be public places?" Kurt said, his voice a deep whisper. "I really want to kiss you right now."

Blaine nearly groaned with the effort it took not to fulfill Kurt's wish — one that so desperately matched his own.

"Oh, how I know that desire," he said. "Believe me, I do, but we must be careful. Should we get caught–"

"I know," Kurt said, not allowing him to finish his thought.

"In the meantime," Blaine said, smiling through his pained thoughts, "will you sing me another song?"

His fingers glided over the piano keys, and Kurt smiled as he recognized the melody. Blaine nudged his knee against Kurt's and allowed himself to get lost in his lover's voice as it enveloped him in its warmth, making him feel safe and cherished.

* * *

The following week, Blaine's grandfather became an absolute tyrant as his wedding rapidly approached. He seemed quicker to anger and directed all of his ire at Blaine, criticizing everything from his manner of dress to his choice of whiskey over brandy after dinner.

But the impending wedding meant Dr. Anderson would be gone for nearly a month, giving Blaine free rein over Markland and more time to spend with Kurt. So he endured the repeated assaults on his character, if only to get through to the wedding and blissful weeks alone with Kurt.

"What are your intentions with Lucy?" he asked Blaine one morning at breakfast.

"I _intend_ to keep courting her," Blaine replied obstinately, now angry at his grandfather for the simple act of reminding him that he would have to continue that ridiculous charade for the duration of his stay. He'd rather spend his time with Kurt.

"Good. You need to make time for her while I'm gone," he said, sipping his coffee and returning to his morning paper. "And marriage?"

"It's a possibility," Blaine muttered.

"You need to quit dilly dallying," he said, without looking up. "Or someone else will get to it before you do."

"You say that like I'm bidding on a tract of land. She's a _person_ , grandfather."

"Yes, and an attractive, single woman," Dr. Anderson said, flinging his paper down next to his plate. "Do you think she doesn't have other prospects? Russell told me there's a young man in the city who has asked for her hand, but she's waiting on you before she responds."

"I have no claim on her," Blaine muttered into his coffee.

"And whose fault is that?"

"I'm just not sure I want to be married."

Blaine's grandfather slammed his fist down on the mahogany dining table, rattling the dishes and causing the cream to slosh from its container onto the lace doily lining the teatray.

"You don't get a choice!" he boomed. "It's either Lucy Fabray or someone else, but you _will_ be married before this year is out."

"So I've been told," Blaine said. "You and mother remind me every chance you get. I'm well aware of my responsibilities."

"Then act like it, and quit running around with that Hummel boy."

" _Kurt_ is my friend."

"He's a dandy and a goddamned embarrassment to his father."

"He's engaged to be married."

"And yet you can't seem to manage it," his grandfather sneered. His mustache twitched with a chuckle.

"I fail to see what's so humorous."

"A prissy fairy like that, and _you_ are the bachelor of the two."

"You don't know anything about Kurt."

"I know everything I need to."

Blaine couldn't bear the bickering anymore or the insults levied at his lover. He pushed his chair from the table. "I think I'll excuse myself before one of us says something he regrets."

"I meant every word," his grandfather replied.

"I was referring to _myself_ ," Blaine retorted. "I'll see you this evening for dinner."

He threw his napkin down on the table and walked out the front door of the house, not even pausing it to close it behind him. He didn't know where he was even headed until he ended up on the grounds of the Ponce, pacing angrily between the orange trees. It seemed colder than it had the previous two weeks, and he wondered if this was the true Florida "winter" the locals had talked about. It was still infinitely better than the winds that whipped through the streets of New York.

His strides got wider and his path longer as he paced, eventually leading him to the northern edge of the groves near the artists' studios. The sight of the building reminded him that Kurt was taking lessons in Felix de Crano's studio, and he set off for the painter's tiny alcove in the row of studios along Valencia Street.

Blaine rapped sharply on the door to studio number one. A voice from inside called out, "enter." Blaine stepped into the room to find it brightly lit, despite its lack of windows, and a glance upward revealed that the source of light was a multi-paned skylight in the ceiling, letting in washes of light from the crisp, January morning.

The smell of the paints and chemicals burned his nose a little, a smell he hadn't noticed before when he had remained just outside the doorway to eavesdrop on Kurt. He wondered how the artists could stand to breathe in the fumes all day. Then again, very few of them seemed to have their wits about themselves all the time. Perhaps it had all gone to their heads.

"Can I help you, sir?" asked de Crano, his voice emerging as if from nowhere.

"Good morning, Mr. de Crano," Blaine said, bowing his head to the other gentleman. "My name is Blaine Anderson. I am looking for my friend Kurt Hummel. Have you seen him?"

The artist wiped his brush on a rag draped over his shoulder and turned to face his canvas. "Not today," he said, "but he usually stops by after lunch. Shall I tell him you dropped in?"

"No, that won't be necessary. I will try to catch up with him later. Thank you."

"I thought that might be your response," he said, dipping a brush in a jar full of what looked like murky, green water. "But I will tell him you were here all the same."

Blaine stared at the old man incredulously. "That's really not necessary," he said.

"Necessity is a funny thing," de Crano said. "What one man needs another sees as window dressing and disregards it, but it is nonetheless important to that first man."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

The painter set his brush down and crossed to where Blaine was standing.

"You think it unnecessary to tell Kurt you were here. I think it quite important for him to know his dear friend was trying to locate him in his hour of need."

"I don't need anything from Kurt."

The old man studied Blaine's face for a moment, even reaching up to grip his chin and tilt it left and then right. When he looked satisfied, he spoke again. "I can see you think that is true, but soon you will understand."

"Mr. de Crano, do you always speak in riddles?"

"Only for those who are too scared to see the truth."

"And you think I am scared?" Blaine asked, scoffing at the notion.

"No," he said, and Blaine sighed in short-lived relief. "I think you are terrified. So much so that you don't even know how scared you are. But don't you worry. Kurt? He's scared too."

Blaine couldn't believe this man, the audacity of him to presume that he knew anything about Blaine or, even more infuriating, his relationship with Kurt. But his curiosity got the better of him.

"Of what?"

De Crano resumed painting. "Of what, what?"

"What is Kurt so scared of?"

"Same as you."

Blaine huffed. What could this ridiculous artist know about Blaine's life? They'd only just met.

"You're a crazy old man."

"I'm just telling you what I see," he said with a shrug. "The sun itself sees not until heaven clears."

"And now you're quoting Shakespeare. Is that supposed to convince me of your sanity?"

"You will think what you want. Doesn't change the truth."

Blaine sighed heavily, knowing he wasn't going to get anywhere with the painter. "Good day to you, Mr. de Crano."

"It will be," he replied.

Blaine was still unsure of what the old man meant by his words. He stood there staring after him, willing the other man to acknowledge him once more, but de Crano had returned to his canvas, disregarding Blaine's presence as if they had never spoken. Blaine shook his head and exited the studio, confounded by the entire exchange.

The morning sunlight warmed his face, even though the air held a sharp chill. Blaine still couldn't believe the difference in the climate from what he was used to in New York. It should have cheered him to be in the sunshine, but instead he felt the cheery day mocking him. The very world he knew was forcing him into a cocoon of lies, and he was struggling to get out. Meanwhile, the sun shone on and the earth continued to spin.

Blaine headed east without care for where he was going, but soon realized he was still seeking Kurt out and smiled to himself. Kurt would be on his side about the argument he had with his grandfather. Blaine turned south on Cordova Street and followed the expanse of the Ponce for the length of the block. He noticed a familiar figure seated beneath a small oak tree on the plaza and crossed the street to find his "dear friend" reading yet again. Simply seeing him again made Blaine's heart swell with affection and it lightened his mood ever so slightly.

"Greetings, White Rabbit," Blaine said as he approached.

Kurt looked up at him quizzically. "How did you know I was reading _Alice in Wonderland_?" Kurt asked, placing his finger between the book's pages and resting it in his lap.

"I didn't," Blaine replied. "Lucky coincidence."

He crossed his legs and seated himself beside Kurt. The ground was cooler than the air and he shivered as the chill reached his skin through his thin trousers.

"Our conversation made me think of how much I loved it," Kurt said without prompting. "I thought maybe it was time to give it a try again. Maybe this time it wouldn't make me sad."

"And are you?" Blaine asked, tilting his head to catch Kurt's gaze. He wanted to trace his fingers over Kurt's face, over the fine bones and clear skin, but refrained. "Sad, I mean."

Kurt looked thoughtful for a moment. "No," he said finally. "A bit nostalgic, I suppose. But it's a good memory now." He smiled softly and bumped Blaine's knee with his own.

"What changed?" Blaine asked, his anger still simmering below the surface, even as he smiled at Kurt.

"You."

"Me?"

"You made it a good memory."

Blaine smiled at him, but he was ill at ease from his earlier argument with his grandfather. How could anyone think Kurt was someone to be looked down upon? It made him so angry; he wanted to beg Kurt to run away with him.

"Is something wrong?" Kurt asked, closing his book and turning his full attention to Blaine.

Trying to buy time to think, Blaine picked at the dry grass that intercut the dusty ground they were sitting on. Its blades were thick and stiff, and it grew in heavy patches, choking out the gray-brown sand like it was trying to be noticed while still blending in. It reminded Blaine of why he was so angry. He yanked a thick chunk of the grass out of the ground with a sharp jerk and tossed it, but it only went a few paltry feet and was mostly swept away in the morning breeze. It was nowhere near as satisfying as he had hoped.

"I have to get married," he said as he dusted his hand off on his leg.

Kurt huffed out a laugh that only served to irritate Blaine more. "So do I," Kurt said. "Remember?"

"That's different," Blaine replied. "I'm being forced into something I don't want."

"I'm marrying Rachel," Kurt said. "Do you think she's my first choice?"

"At least you got to choose!"

For a long moment, Kurt was silent. "Why are you getting cross with me?" he finally asked, and Blaine felt a small pang of guilt at the thread of hurt so clearly audible in that beloved voice.

"I'm not," he said, picking at the grass again. His shoulders hunched as he curled in on himself, gentlemanly posture be damned.

"Then what is the problem?" Kurt ran a comforting hand discreetly along Blaine's thigh, using the book to mask his movements. "You've known all along you have to marry. What changed?"

"Everything," Blaine answered, tearing more savagely at the grass. "My grandfather is my problem. This entire _place_ is my problem. Always being judged or held back because of who I am. It isn't fair."

"I don't understand."

Blaine stood up, shoving Kurt's hand roughly away.

"No, you wouldn't, would you?"

Kurt looked up at him, hurt, but this time Blaine's resentment shoved aside the pang of guilt he felt.

"Blaine-"

"You're so naïve, Kurt. You don't know what it's like for me."

"I'm trying to," Kurt replied tightly, rising to his own feet. "But you're shutting me out. Just like everyone else."

"When have I ever treated you like you _they_ do?"

"You're doing it now," Kurt said, fuming. "You think because I don't have money or status that I don't understand what you're going through? I do. I know better than anyone. Of course, I don't want to marry Rachel. Not now. Not after-"

"You think I have it any better?" Blaine snapped.

"I think you have it easier, yes," Kurt bit out.

"Yes, it's so easy not being able to be myself because of who my parents are and where I was born. You have no idea the freedom _you_ have!"

"Freedom? For what? To choose between a handful of professions that will help me survive when I'd rather be designing gowns for people like your mother?"

"You could be a tailor," Blaine insisted.

"But that's still only on the periphery of my dream," Kurt said.

"It's a place to start," Blaine said. "I know one day you'll do better for yourself."

"Well, I think you were _born_ better, and that's just not fair." Kurt was quiet then, his heavy breathing the only sound Blaine could hear for the moment.

"So where does that leave us?" Blaine asked when the silence became too much to endure.

Kurt's gaze fell over Blaine's shoulder to the looming presence of the Ponce in the distance. "Right here, trapped in our separate cages, at war with each other, I suppose," he said.

Blaine sighed and dropped down where Kurt had been sitting in the grass when he first found him. "Kurt, I can't deal with this right now. Not with my grandfather condemning my every action. I need you on my side."

"I am on your side," Kurt said, sitting down beside him and reaching out a hand to rest it on Blaine's forearm. "Always."

"I'm just so tired," Blaine said, dropping his head in his hands and resting his elbows on his knees.

"I know," Kurt said, resignation weighing down his voice. "But I'm going to marry Rachel, and you're going to have to marry someone too. That's just the way the world is."

"Don't you ever want to change it?"

"Every day." Kurt ducked down to catch Blaine's eye. "But today, it doesn't seem so bad. Want to know why?"

Blaine didn't understand what could possibly be good about this day. "Enlighten me," he said.

"You're here," Kurt said, "and right now, that's all I want to think about. Not Rachel, not Quinn, and certainly not your arrogant snob of a grandfather."

Kurt stood up and dusted off his trousers, standing with his hands on his hips and smiling down at Blaine.

"Would you care to join me for a concert this evening?" he asked.

* * *

The concert hall in the Alcazar's Casino was absolutely packed. Chairs were set out in every corner of the room, and there were several men standing in the back. Kurt craned his neck and could see that he recognized most of the crowd from the Ponce, and the few he wasn't familiar with, he suspected were staying at other hotels. He doubted any were locals by their dress and lack of drawling southern speech.

The singer scheduled to appear was Ellen Beach Yaw, a renowned soprano with a four-octave range, whom Rachel adored, but also said she could out sing any day. Kurt had yet to see Miss Yaw perform in person, and had been on tenterhooks about it since Rachel had written him about her appearance in St. Augustine. Of course, she would know about it before Kurt. Rachel's propensity for staying abreast of all the goings on of the stage was one of Kurt's favorite things about her. In fact, their mutual love of theatre was one of the first things he and Rachel had bonded over.

"Can you believe this crowd?" Kurt said, not even needing to lean in to speak to Blaine. They were already sitting so close together, their bodies were touching from shoulder to hip. Ordinarily, such tight quarters would have Kurt fidgeting like a small child, but he found he didn't mind so much with Blaine as his companion for the evening.

"She's quite famous," Blaine said.

"Indeed," Kurt replied. "I heard her trills are the highlight of her performances. Well, that and her high notes."

"I can't wait," Blaine said. "I missed her last performance in New York thanks to family obligations." His voice sounded pinched on the last few words. The encounter with his grandfather must still be sore spot, Kurt decided. He was about to say something else to change the subject when a dark-haired man took the stage and gestured for the crowd to quiet down.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he boomed. "On this very night; on this very stage, we have a soloist so unique, she's been called the California Nightingale. A talent so pure, Kings and Queens have asked for her by name. Ladies and gentlemen, prepare to be astounded as you never have before by the Lark herself, Miss Ellen Beach Yaw."

A hearty round of applause erupted around them, sending chills down Kurt's spine. The anticipation in the room was thick and he could feel Blaine's eyes on him. Kurt glanced sideways at him and could see a flirtatious grin on his face.

"Stop that," Kurt said as quietly as he could and still be heard over the applause. "People can see you."

"I can't help it," Blaine said. "I love seeing you smile like that. You have no idea how your face lights up."

With the slightest of droll winks, Blaine returned his gaze to the stage, leaving Kurt bewildered for the moment. He still couldn't believe how Blaine liked to compliment him, nor could he believe it to be true. He'd always felt awkward and feminine compared to other boys — it seemed the height of unreality to think that anyone would find him attractive. Kurt knew, of course, that he wasn't ugly and he was far from plain, but the idea that someone as handsome and well-mannered as Blaine might find him attractive… well that was quite enough to come to terms with.

Kurt realized he was staring, though, and forced himself to look away. Thankfully the singer was now standing center stage — a small woman with long, wavy brown hair in which she wore a crown of flowers and beads. She looked quite nondescript apart from that adornment and her impeccable posture. But then she turned, the electric lights glinting off the fine silk of her dress, and she gestured for the man at the piano to begin playing.

When she opened her mouth to sing, she held Kurt captive with her voice.

He had never heard anything so divine in all his life. Even Rachel's powerful soprano paled in comparison to this young woman's gift. Her trills were divine, yes, but Kurt nearly gasped aloud when she hit a high note so pure, it made gooseflesh form on his arms.

When the show finally ended, Kurt felt glued to his seat, rapt and unable to breathe, let alone move. Blaine nudged him gently with his shoulder or he might have stayed that way until morning.

"Are you alive over there?"

Kurt shook his head to clear it, feeling as though the last notes of the singer's performance were still rattling about in his head. He could sense the people around them leaving their chairs and he could hear the murmur of voices, but he still didn't move. "She was simply outstanding," Kurt said. "Rachel would have fainted."

"She was alright," Blaine said with a shrug.

Kurt swiveled his head and gaped at him. "How can you be so calm about it?" Kurt asked, shocked at Blaine's lack of enthusiasm. "She was magnificent!"

Blaine pulled out his cigarette case and opened it, taking one for himself before offering it to Kurt. Kurt shook his head, still incredulous at Blaine's indifference and find himself unable to focus.

"I've heard better," Blaine said at last, placing his cigarette in his mouth and striking a match. He cupped his hand around the flame and inhaled deeply.

Kurt scoffed at the notion. "Who?"

Blaine paused, pulling the cigarette from his lips and exhaling a long puff of smoke that he directed away from Kurt's face.

"You," he said.

Kurt couldn't be sure, but he would have sworn he saw Blaine's eyes actually twinkle as he spoke, the deep golden hue of his irises teasing Kurt and taking his breath away.

"Oh stop," Kurt said. "I'm good, but she…"

"She's very good," Blaine said. "But I'd still rather hear you sing."

Kurt gasped. After a moment, he collected himself, though, and

"You're incorrigible."

A warm smile lit up Blaine's face and he shrugged. "I'm honest. There's something true about your voice, a quality she could only hope to mimic and never will."

"But…"

"You need to learn to take a compliment, Kurt," Blaine said as he rose to standing.

Kurt looked up at him for a moment, eyes wide, unsure of what to say or do. To be compared to a talent such as Lark Ellen —even Rachel couldn't compare—it took his breath away. Blaine took his breath away.

* * *

They walked back to the Ponce slowly, the cool January evening brisk but not too sharp. Blaine seemed content but still a little distant.

"What are you thinking?" Kurt asked.

Their steps echoed on the brick as Blaine seemed to mull the simple question in his mind. Then he smiled. "I was wondering if I could stop time, keep the world at bay a little while longer while I get lost in this dark night with you."

"Always the poet," Kurt teased.

"I mean it," Blaine said. "I don't want my life to move forward. I'm happy now."

But Kurt knew they couldn't really afford to allow themselves to think in such fancies. "Who's to say you won't be happy later too?"

"Who's to say I will?"

Kurt chanced a sidelong glance and took in the set of Blaine's jaw. "You can't live your life like that."

"But see, there's the rub," Blaine said, stopping alongside a gas lamp that cast deep shadows across them both. "I'm not living my life. My parents are, dictating how I should be."

"So don't let them."

"Kurt, you don't understand."

"I do," he said. "Better than you know." He paused, tilted his head back and inhaling deeply. Everything was so complicated. And unfair. Still, if they went on talking like this… "But we're talking in circles, and I really don't want to ruin this evening by arguing."

"As you wish," Blaine said. His smile looked forced, but at least he was smiling.

The urge to link arms with Blaine, like he had so many times with Rachel, was overwhelming. It made his heart ache to think he'd never have that with Blaine, the simple gesture of declaring to the world that they belonged to each other. And worse still, they'd have to spend their lives declaring that they both belonged to another. The thought alone was enough to send Kurt wallowing in his own despair, but instead he shoved it to a corner of his mind and looked over at the wonderful man beside him. He would enjoy the time he had with Blaine and try to forget the rest. He needn't worry about things he could not control and the future was uncertain anyway.

All that mattered for now was that they were here and they were together in the moment. The rest would sort itself out in due course.


	7. Chapter 7

The day of Dr. Anderson's wedding was a bright and cheery Tuesday in late January. The orange blossoms were more fragrant than they had been in days, and Kurt wanted to get lost in the romance of it.

Just for a change of scenery, Kurt went for a walk that morning down King Street toward the train station and saw dozens of crates and trunks being carried into Markland — Mary Smethurst's things, no doubt. He hoped for a glimpse of Blaine, but only saw sweaty workers clad in overalls, rather than his gorgeous young gentleman with the ochre eyes in one of his well-fitted suits.

As he passed the front porch he could see Dr. Anderson sitting in a rocking chair reading the morning paper and sipping a cup of coffee. Kurt hesitated for a moment, trying to decide whether he should say hello or not, but he finally decided he should at least try to be cordial to Dr. Anderson. He was Blaine's grandfather after all.

"Good morning," Kurt called.

Dr. Anderson looked up and scowled. "Oh, hello."

"It's a lovely day for your wedding, Dr. Anderson."

"Yes, quite." His words were perfunctory, but not rude. Kurt considered that progress.

"I'm looking forward to the ball this evening," Kurt continued undaunted. "Blaine tells me it's to be the affair of the season."

"I'm sure he did." Dr. Anderson returned his attention to the paper, almost ignoring Kurt's presence altogether.

"Well, I should be going," Kurt said, not wishing to continue this particular torture any longer than was absolutely necessary, and turned to head west again down the street.

"Wait just a moment," Dr. Anderson said, rising from his chair and walking to the edge of the steps.

Kurt turned, but didn't speak. He straightened his back, preparing for what he sensed was coming.

"I suppose you know I'll be gone on my honeymoon for a few weeks," he said.

"Blaine mentioned it, yes."

"I'd prefer it if you kept your distance from my grandson while I'm gone."

Kurt felt his heart plummet into his stomach, but he tried to keep a neutral expression.

"I beg your pardon?"

"He should be spending all his free time with Miss Fabray, and your presence would just be a… distraction."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Kurt said, steeling himself for whatever Dr. Anderson had to say. He couldn't help wondering, though, had they been found out?

Dr. Anderson descended the steps, his lips curled in a cruel smile, and approached Kurt.

"I think you know exactly what I mean, Mr. Hummel," he said, leaning into Kurt's personal space and puffing up his chest to accentuate their difference in size. Kurt might have been slightly taller than Blaine's grandfather, but the old man was considerably broader.

Kurt didn't back down, though, holding his ground and Dr. Anderson's gaze. He refused to be bullied out of his friendship with Blaine, not even by someone as influential as the celebrated Andrew Anderson.

"We have done nothing to be ashamed of," Kurt said. "Blaine is a grown man and can choose his friends. But as you said yourself, he's courting Miss Fabray and will be spending his free time with her. There's nothing for either of us to be concerned with."

Dr. Anderson scowled, his thick, white eyebrows nearly obscuring his squinty eyes but not the glare he leveled at Kurt.

"You're not one of us, you know… and you never will be. You're just a mechanic's son, and my grandson is from a good family. Once he's back in New York, around his own kind, you'll be nothing but a distant memory."

Kurt felt as if a hole had been blown in his chest, creating an empty cavern where his heart should be. Dr. Anderson was right; he couldn't compete with high society, not once they were back in New York and Blaine could return to his life before this – before he had met Kurt. He was going to marry Quinn and live that life, the one that had been predetermined for him since the day he was born. Kurt was to marry Rachel and live his life, whatever it may be. There was no hope for anything beyond that, not ever.

"I think I should be going," Kurt said, his voice sounding choked and weak to his own ears, but that wasn't what concerned him. He just wanted to get as far away from Markland, and Dr. Anderson's judgment, as fast as his feet would carry him. Without waiting for Dr. Anderson to bid him good morning, he turned and set off in the direction he had come, no longer interested in his morning stroll. Besides, he still hadn't written Rachel since his last letter. He should write to Rachel.

As he rounded the corner to head back to the hotel, he heard a voice call out.

"Kurt!"

"Mr. de Crano," Kurt said, trying to hide the tears welling up in his eyes by pretending to shield them from the sun. "Good morning."

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" he asked. The man's arms were laden with several small parcels and he carried a roll of canvas under his left arm.

"Can I help you with those?" Kurt asked.

"Yes, thank you," he said, passing a few of the parcels off to Kurt and adjusting the canvas so he could carry it better. "So what has you looking so distraught this fine morning, my friend?"

"I'm not distraught," Kurt protested.

"Poppycock! You look like someone just took away your favorite toy. Who would do such a thing to such a sweet boy?"

"It's nothing," Kurt said.

"Does 'nothing' wear a suit and have more money than sense?"

"How did you know?" Kurt asked, eyes wide.

De Crano laughed. "Oh, Kurt," he said. "I just described every man within a six-block radius."

"I suppose you did."

"You should laugh more," de Crano said. "It's good for the health."

"I don't feel much like laughing today," Kurt said.

"Ah, so something _is_ wrong."

"How are you always so observant, Mr. de Crano?"

"I look with an artist's eye," he said simply.

Kurt kicked at the sandy dirt road as they crossed it. A cloud of dust trailed behind them and followed the breeze west. When they reached Felix de Crano's studio, Kurt set down the packages he had carried and made as if to leave.

"You stay," the old man said. "You paint what is bothering you. Get it out."

Kurt opened his mouth to protest, but realized he had nowhere to be, and spending some time creating… _something_ sounded like an appealing idea, a far sight better than going back to his room to write Rachel or sitting in the courtyard with his father for yet another lazy morning.

"Can I sketch instead?" he asked.

"Be my guest," de Crano said, gesturing to a table in the corner where he kept a stack of paper and a jar of pencils and charcoal sticks.

Kurt walked over to it and glanced down at a simple pencil sketch of what looked to be the fort that stood on the bay just across from the city gates.

"That's to be my next painting," he said. "Do you like?"

"Needs color."

The painter laughed. "I agree," he said and began clearing the surface for Kurt. He pulled up a stool and offered it to Kurt but spoke no other words and they both began to work on their art.

Kurt grabbed a sheet of paper from the stack on the edge of the table and a charcoal stick from the jar. He held it in his hand for a moment, simply savoring the scratchy feel of it as it coated his fingers in black and left flecks of itself along the stained wood of the tabletop. He set it down to remove his jacket, and wiped his hands on a stray rag before rolling up his shirtsleeves. When he could again comfortably move his limbs, he picked up the charcoal and tried to think of what to draw.

He considered a landscape, perhaps the skyline of the Ponce itself, or the geometric pattern the orange groves made across the west lawn – if only he could capture the smell. The way the sweet scent of this divine place had entranced him that first night with Blaine.

His hand dropped to the page, a few strokes bringing to life the image of a young gentleman leaning on an orange tree, a cigarette captured between his lips as the smoke curled around his dark hair. The man's eyes shone, even in the simple black of the charcoal lines of the page, or perhaps that was just Kurt's imagination making it appear that way. Kurt drew the charcoal man with a hand in his waistcoat pocket, poised to retrieve his watch as a mischievous smile tried to break free. His tie was slightly askew, which at first glance might appear a bit haphazard, but Kurt knew it was a perfect example of the contradiction that existed in his charcoal man's soul. He was both a gentleman and a radical, a scholar and a cad – the rogue with a heart three times too big for his chest.

"Is this him?"

Kurt startled at the sound of de Crano's voice after so much silence. He glanced up to find the painter wiping his hands on a rag and studying Kurt's drawing intently.

"Um…" Kurt stammered.

"Is this Mr. Problem?"

"He's… that's Blaine," Kurt said finally. "Blaine Anderson. He's my… friend."

Kurt glanced down at his drawing. The word 'friend' seemed like a betrayal and yet it was all he could say. It was all they could ever be.

In that moment Kurt realized that the rest of his life would be a lie. No matter whom he married, no matter what he said, he would be living only half of his truth. The rest would always remain hidden.

Except to Blaine.

"He looks… interesting."

"He is."

"Is he the Anderson getting married today?"

Kurt bristled. "Not today, no. That's his grandfather, Dr. Anderson."

"Ah, yes. That makes more sense. So what is trouble, Kurt?"

"His grandfather thinks we shouldn't be… friends."

"And what does the young Mr. Anderson think?"

"I don't think he cares much for his grandfather's opinion."

"And what do _you_ think?"

"Me?" Kurt asked. "I think he's the most insufferable, arrogant, pompous, bitter old man to ever-" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. "Pardon me. I shouldn't have said—"

"Oh shush. In my experience, our first reactions are usually the right ones, even if our words come out harsher than we intended."

"I'm just worried that the pressure from his family and society friends will force us apart," Kurt said, the scratch of the charcoal on the page creating a painful symphony while he talked. "They don't like me much."

"What's not to like?"

"My family name isn't worth much," Kurt said.

"You know what Shakespeare said of names, my dear Kurt."

Kurt raised an eyebrow, his literary references escaping him in his moment of preoccupation.

"What's in a name?" he recited. "That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

"I'm afraid it's more complicated than that," Kurt replied.

"What is complicated?" de Crano said. "You are friends with this man?"

"Yes."

"Then you are friends. You don't need permission."

But what if we're more than friends, Kurt thought. What then?

* * *

By the time Kurt and his father arrived in the dining room for the Andersons' wedding reception that night, it had been converted to a lush ballroom, the tables and chairs gone and a full orchestra playing bright music. Several couples were already twirling around the room in time to a playful waltz. Some of the older couples seated along the walls on either side of the room looked disdainful even as they smiled and chatted politely.

"I know I'm old fashioned," Burt said quietly to Kurt, "but I still can't get used to seeing the men touching the women's backs like that."

"It's just a waltz, dad," Kurt said. "It's perfectly natural."

"It just looks wrong," Burt said. "In my day, we did the polonaise, or maybe a reel." He paused and waved at a group standing near the punch bowl. "Your mother would have loved it, though," he added.

Kurt smiled. "I'm sure she would."

Burt crossed the room to greet the party he'd waved at and made polite introductions.

"Good evening," Burt said, bowing slightly to the group. "Kurt, you know Clark Howell and John Lowry already. Mrs. Lowry, Mrs. Howell, Mrs. Hudson," Burt said, greeting the ladies in the group by name. "I'd like you to meet my son, Kurt.

"Hello, Kurt," they all said. Kurt nodded his greetings and turned back to his father to find him smiling broadly at the one called Mrs. Hudson. Kurt's eyes darted to her, and sure enough, she was smiling brightly back at his father.

She was dressed in all black — mourning, Kurt noted — and he wondered if she was the woman Mr. Lowry had mentioned in the smoking room a few nights ago.

The waltz ended to light applause as the orchestra started another piece of music.

"Oh, a polonaise," Mrs. Hudson said. "That's more my speed."

"Would you care to?" Burt asked, holding out his arm for the widow as the other couples headed for the dance floor. Kurt, left standing there alone for the moment, made a circuit of the room with his eyes. It seemed all of St. Augustine had turned out for the occasion, many of the hotel guests as well as some of the more well-to-do locals. Kurt smiled at a young woman sitting by the Barrows near the entrance, but his eyes caught the flash of a dark head of hair and his attention turned.

Blaine was standing in the doorway to the dining room, Quinn Fabray on his arm as they greeted several guests. Behind him stood a smug-looking Dr. Anderson and his new bride, a giant smile plastered on her pale face as she received the best wishes of all her guests. Blaine didn't notice him straight away so Kurt took the opportunity to study his lover's demeanor. He couldn't help but notice how happy and at ease he looked with the young Miss Fabray on his arm, no signs of distress on his handsome features. It hurt more than Kurt was prepared for, watching the young couple engage in polite conversation in a way Kurt would never be allowed, at least not with Blaine.

The Andersons were followed by the Fabrays and the Smethursts, who all immediately joined the other couples already lined up for the polonaise.

Just as the couples bowed to begin the dance, Blaine's eyes caught Kurt's across the room and a small flicker of a smile teased the corners of Blaine's mouth. Kurt nodded once and watched with envy as Blaine twirled alongside Quinn in time with the other couples, his only consolation that it wasn't a waltz so their contact was minimal.

The intensity of Blaine's frequent glances in his direction kept him glued to the spot, though, even as he wanted to look away. Each time he faced Kurt, Blaine would lock eyes with him and stare as best he could while maintaining his place in the dance. Kurt's heart raced as he watched, every inch of his body feeling as if it were under the most perfect kind of examination.

The group turned so the men's backs were to the ladies' and they rounded each other, but Blaine's eyes never left Kurt's. The flash of heartache behind his warm smile was evident only if you looked for it, but Kurt could see it plain as day: he regretted not being on the arm of his true partner. Quinn was just for show.

By the time the dance ended, Kurt had convinced himself that he would be able to endure this one night. There was nothing to worry about. Blaine was his, and soon they would be alone in Markland, wrapped in each other's embrace.

When the music ended and the orchestra announced a brief break, Kurt crossed the room to greet Blaine, trying to keep his strides a normal length.

"Oh, Kurt," Blaine exclaimed the moment he saw him. "You came."

"Wouldn't miss it," Kurt replied, forcing his lips into a tight smile.

"Quinn, have you met Mr. Hummel?" he asked.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," she said, as Kurt took her hand in polite greeting. "Are you staying at the Ponce as well?"

"Yes," Kurt said. "My father needed a break. He works too hard."

Kurt had never been good at making polite conversation, and it was even more difficult as he play-acted for his lover's intended. It all felt so surreal and quite uncomfortable, but Blaine smiled at them both, his face a perfect mask of neutrality; it gave Kurt a small measure of courage to continue.

"I know what you mean," Quinn added. "I'm forever telling Daddy he needs to allow himself more leisure time. Mother practically had to bribe him with stock certificates to get him here."

She laughed then, but Kurt failed to see what was so funny. Blaine chuckled quietly even as he watched Kurt's expression, his eyes pleading with Kurt to keep up the charade. Kurt conceded, smiling brightly at him and trying to convey his apologies with his eyes.

"Quinn, you look lovely," a feminine voice to Kurt's right said.

A young woman with mousey brown hair had approached them, and was now gushing over the detail on Quinn's dress. Kurt wanted to say he could do better embroidery in his sleep, but he bit his tongue in favor of taking the opportunity to admire Blaine in his suit. It was the same starched white collar he always wore, but the studs were a deep onyx and his jacket looked freshly tailored. It accentuated Blaine's broad shoulders and narrow waist better than the one he usually wore to dinner, and Kurt was struck with the sudden desire to make Blaine a dozen suits in varying colors and patterns.

"Oh, I'm sure Kurt would love to dance with you," Quinn said, startling Kurt out of his examination of Blaine.

"I beg your pardon?" Kurt said, his brow furrowed in confusion. He hadn't asked anyone to dance.

"Kurt," Quinn said, leaning in close. "You'd love to dance with Violet, wouldn't you?"

He looked between Quinn and Violet before glancing over to Blaine. Deep amber eyes implored him to say yes. He didn't want to dance with this girl, but Blaine's gaze kept him there.

Kurt took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and held out his elbow for the girl to take just as the music began again.

"Do you know how to waltz, Miss Violet?" Kurt asked.

"Of course," she said with an undignified giggle.

The music was only about five bars in, but Kurt already recognized the melody as the song he had sung to Blaine in the parlor a few nights ago. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his uneven breaths as he gripped Violet's right hand in his left and clasped his other hand on her back. He felt her left hand land along his arm, but apart from that he felt nothing.

Blaine bowed to Quinn, and Kurt bowed to his partner, but Kurt refused to look at Blaine. He didn't want to see his lover feigning adoration for another, even if it was Quinn. Worse still, he didn't want to see Blaine trying to catch his eye because of what they had previously shared under the spell of this song. He looked Violet steadfastly in the eye and waltzed her around the dance floor.

The song of heartache and regret, a lover mistakenly scorned at the ball, penetrated his skin and poisoned his veins as he danced. The bright tenor of the melody rang out around him and he sang the words in his head even though there was no one singing with the orchestra.

"Many a heart is aching, if you could read them all—Many the hopes that have vanished after the ball."

As the music faded, Kurt could barely remember dancing. Violet looked breathless and flushed, so he must have completed the steps, but his mind was blank of the memory. She smiled meekly up at him, imploring him to ask for another dance, but Kurt couldn't bear another one.

"Thank you for the dance, Miss Violet," Kurt said, bowing to the girl and making an abrupt exit of the dance floor as another waltz began to play. He slumped against a pillar and tried to catch his breath. He hoped it looked as if he'd simply tired himself out dancing.

"Oh goodness, Molly. Isn't it lovely to see such a handsome young couple so clearly in love?"

"They make such a lovely pair," Molly replied.

"Judith said Lucy will likely be betrothed to Mr. Anderson before long, probably before the season's out."

Kurt followed the ladies' eyeline to the dance floor, and tried to see it through their eyes. Blaine looked like royalty tonight, his posture and carriage during the dance utter perfection as he twirled Quinn between the other dancers, never missing a beat.

"I heard he's been a bit difficult to pin down," Molly said.

"I think his grandfather's taken care of that," the other woman replied. "I heard he's cut off if he's not married by the end of the year."

Quinn threw her head back, laughing at something Blaine must have said. The contrast of the sickening feeling rising up in Kurt's gut was acute; his palms sweated as his heart betrayed him yet again. He balled his hands into fists and flexed them tightly, trying to calm himself, but it was to no avail. He needed air.

Kurt raced from the ballroom, anger and disappointment flooding his veins as he escaped. He had to get away. Every fiber of his being was dying from the heartache of watching everyone coo over Blaine as he twirled Quinn around the dance floor. They made a pretty pair to be sure, but it was more than Kurt could bear, knowing it was all for show. The lie was too much, his heart too fragile to endure it.

He could feel the tears streaming down his face, but he kept running. His feet carried him down the back stairs and into the carriage way and out to the grounds until he found himself back in the orange groves. The scent was overpowering, and the memories associated with it made his stomach turn. He doubled over and tried to calm his breathing, to will the contents of his stomach to stay put, but it was to no avail. He retched and gagged into the soft sand until he had nothing else to cough up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and dug into his pocket for his handkerchief. When he stood up, Blaine was there, looking panicked and more than a little concerned.

"Kurt, what happened?" he said.

"It was too much."

"What was?"

"Everything," Kurt said, sighing as he curled in on himself. "I was so humiliated and angry. I feel so stupid."

"Kurt, it will be all right," Blaine said reassuringly, and made to reach out to Kurt before pulling away abruptly, glancing around as if to make sure they were not being watched.

The action only spurred Kurt's anger further. "It's not, Blaine," he insisted. Don't you understand that? It will never be right. Not like this."

"Like what?"

"She had her hands on you," Kurt shouted. "She was dancing with you, flaunting you about like you were her possession, and I could do nothing but watch."

"This is about Quinn?" Blaine asked, looking thoroughly shocked. "You know I have to pretend to—"

"Of course I know that," Kurt said. "I'm not an idiot!"

"Then what has you so worked up?"

"The damned futility of it all. The charade, the lies. I can't bear it. Not when people look at you with her and think it's real. Not when I want to be the one on your arm, the one you twirl around the ballroom for everyone to see."

"She may have my hand in public, Kurt, but you have my heart," Blaine said, lifting Kurt's arm from where it rested at his side and kissing his balled up fist, using his body to shield his actions from the sparkling windows of the dining room behind them. "I think you win."

Kurt sighed and spoke more softly, feeling dejected and just plain sad.

"What happens when you get married, Blaine? What happens when I get married?"

Blaine released his hand and lowered his gaze to the floor.

"I hadn't really considered it," he said.

"Of course you hadn't."

"Don't be like that, Kurt."

"Like what? A jealous lover? Because that's what I am, Blaine. I have you, but I'll never really _have_ you. Not where they're all concerned."

"Who cares what they think?"

"I care. Your family cares."

"What are you saying, Kurt? You want to end this? Before it's even begun?"

"I don't know what I'm saying. I just want one night where I don't have to share you with the world."

"Then come back to Markland with me," Blaine said, taking his hand again. "Spend the night in my bed. I promise you, there will be no one there but us."

Kurt could feel the corners of his mouth betraying his face into a smile. He wanted to deny Blaine, but he couldn't bring himself to deny his own desires: every inch of him seemed to cry out for the man's love. When had he become such a romantic?

"And what am I to do once I am in your bed, Mr. Anderson? Shall you have your wicked way with me?"

"I was actually hoping you'd have your wicked way with _me_."

* * *

By the time the party was over and the guests had gone home, Kurt was a tightly wound ball of nerves, anxious over spending the night with Blaine and uncertain whether his trepidation came from a lack of knowledge or excitement at the prospect of learning the ways of Greek love.

He had watched Blaine dance with Quinn and charm the Fabrays, courting every one of his grandfather's guests in the process. It was a sight to behold, and not an entirely welcome one, but Kurt was more prepared to handle it after speaking with Blaine. At the very least, he could certainly appreciate the man's ability to turn heads.

As he leaned on the back gate of the Markland estate, waiting for Blaine to appear from seeing the Fabrays back to their room, Kurt could feel his stomach flipping around inside his gut, his frayed nerves getting the better of him in spite of the expensive wine he had drunk at the party coursing through his veins.

He lit another cigarette and began to pace along the fence, the cool night air carrying the breeze across his face. He inhaled deeply, realizing for the first time how much he missed the scent of the orange blossoms. The freeze had killed nearly every plant in St. Augustine, but Kurt couldn't bring himself to care too much. He had his time alone with his lover. Dr. Anderson and his new bride would be staying at the waterfront San Marco Hotel and then leaving for their honeymoon in the morning. It was a perfect night, with or without the orange blossoms.

Kurt tilted his head back to stare up at the stars as he took a long, slow drag on his cigarette.

"You look deep in thought."

Kurt didn't even jump, Blaine's voice sounding like brushed velvet on the night air.

"I was thinking of you," Kurt said wistfully.

"Good thoughts, I hope."

"The best."

Blaine's face burst into a wide grin and his hazel eyes danced with mischief as he said, "Shall we?" He held out an arm for Kurt as he had earlier for Quinn.

Taking it felt as natural to Kurt as breathing.

Blaine led him into the house through the kitchen and up the back stairs without saying a word. Kurt could hear nothing but their footsteps and the steady thump-thump of his own heart in his ears.

When they reached Blaine's room, he took Kurt gently by the hand, leading him inside and over to the bed.

"Are you nervous?" Blaine asked, turning to face him.

Kurt considered the question for a moment before shaking his head. "No," he said. "More curious I think. I'm not sure how… Well, how we…"

"Make love?"

"Yes," Kurt said, casting his eyes downward. He hated that he was so inexperienced, and wondered if Blaine thought him a fool, but that only lasted for a moment before Blaine's hand was gently nudging his chin up. His gaze was met with warm, golden eyes filled with pure adoration.

"Kurt, we don't have to do this if you're not ready." He kissed the tip of Kurt's nose and nudged it up with his lips before sealing his mouth over Kurt's. His tongue swept over Kurt's bottom lip, eliciting a gasp from the unexpected contact. "But if you'll let me," Blaine continued. "I'd love to show you what love between two men can really be."

He captured Kurt's lips in another kiss, but this time Kurt was prepared for when his tongue darted out, parting his lips and inviting Blaine to taste. The sensation was almost more than he could bear, every fleeting brush of Blaine's tongue ignited something within him and soon he was aching with need to feel more.

"Show me," Kurt gasped.

Without hesitation, Blaine's hands came up to cup Kurt's face as he kissed him deeply. His hands dropped to Kurt's chest and then his torso as he began to unbutton Kurt's waistcoat.

Kurt could feel his heart racing, but he barely noticed, for all his attentions were focused on Blaine's hands. His fingers deftly worked over his clothes until Kurt was standing shirtless before him, his chest heaving as he worked to catch his breath.

"Just as beautiful as I remembered," Blaine whispered into his skin as he painted a line of kisses across Kurt's chest.

"Oh," Kurt gasped. "That feels…"

"Good?"

"Very good," Kurt replied, tilting his head down to meet Blaine's eyes.

"It gets better," Blaine said, looking up at Kurt through his long lashes. "Can I show you?"

Kurt nodded and kept his eyes on Blaine as he kneeled before him and began unfastening his trousers. Kurt tried to speak, but the words died in his throat as Blaine's hand closed around his hardened cock. He gasped, the feeling beyond anything he'd experienced. He'd touched himself before, of course, but to have another man pleasure him in this way was unbelievable.

"Is this what Oscar Wilde is always going on about?" he sighed. "God, I didn't know. How could I?"

He was rambling a bit, but he didn't care. He felt so alive. _Everything_ felt alive.

"Actually, Kurt, I think he might have been referring to this," Blaine said, and before Kurt could inquire as to what he meant, Blaine had sealed his mouth over Kurt's full length and was sucking firmly on it as he pulled back only to repeat it again.

Kurt stumbled, his body alight with arousal and bliss, but Blaine's arm gripped him tightly about the hips as he continued to work his mouth along Kurt's cock.

"How… what… I can't."

His babbling fell on deaf ears, or perhaps Blaine was too preoccupied to speak, because instead of a response, Kurt felt a feather-light brush of Blaine's tongue along the tip of his penis that caused him to suck in a sharp breath, throwing his head back in ecstasy.

"Blaine," he cried.

He heard a gentle hum of amused laughter coming from Blaine's direction, but Kurt neither opened his eyes to see or his mouth to speak. Instead he allowed the feeling to wash over him as the pleasure built and built until he thought he could take it no more.

"Blaine, I can't…"

"Shhh," Blaine said, pulling back. "Just let go. Let me pleasure you."

Kurt glanced down at his lover then. His face was flushed and his cheeks hollowed as he worked his mouth over Kurt's cock.

Kurt ran a hand along Blaine's jaw and caressed him gently, even as he struggled to stay on his feet. Blaine kept his rhythm steady, so it didn't take long for Kurt's pleasure to build again, the peak of it hitting him quite suddenly.

Without warning, Kurt spilled into Blaine's mouth in long, toe-curling pulses. Blaine simply continued sucking at it until Kurt was finished, swallowing as he coaxed every last drop of pleasure from Kurt's body.

When he had finished, Kurt nearly doubled over from the release. He felt utterly relaxed, a little like he might be floating in mid air. He felt a strong arm tighten around him to keep him from toppling over.

"How did you know to do that?"

"It's fantastic, isn't it?" Blaine said, a delighted smirk on his face as he rose to standing. He supported Kurt's body weight until he could guide him back to the bed, shoving him down lightly and finally divesting him of his trousers and shoes.

Kurt hadn't even realized until that moment that Blaine was still fully clothed, his own erection now prominently defined beneath his straining trousers.

Emboldened by his recent experience, Kurt reached up and began to remove Blaine's waistcoat, removing it slowly as Blaine had done to him. He followed that with Blaine's shirt and trousers, and then his underthings, until they were both quite naked and sprawled on the soft cushion of Blaine's bed.

"Tell me how to give you pleasure," Kurt said, lazy finger tracing random patterns along Blaine's chest as he used it as a pillow. "I want to return the favor."

Blaine laughed, the movement of his chest jostling Kurt's head as he peppered Blaine's collarbone with kisses.

"Suddenly so eager, Mr. Hummel. I take it you enjoyed what I did?"

"Do you even have to ask?"

"No, I suppose not."

He tilted Kurt's head up and pulled him in for a kiss, soft and gentle, with just a spark of passion flickering underneath. As Kurt savored the languid movements of their lips and tongues, he felt Blaine's erection brush against his hip. It served as a reminder to him that he wanted to pleasure his lover — so they could share this moment. Kurt trailed his hand down Blaine's torso, his fingertips teasing warm skin until he reached the dark thatch of hair at the base of Blaine's cock. He paused there, uncertainty taking over his bravery momentarily, but then Blaine moaned into his mouth and his hesitation was forgotten.

Kurt's hand closed around Blaine's erection, itself slightly thicker than Kurt's but just about the same length, and Blaine arched his back to thrust into Kurt's fist. The notion that he'd drawn that kind of reaction from a man as experienced as Blaine sent him reeling.

He worked his hand over Blaine, but the position felt slightly awkward and Kurt was finding himself growing aroused again from the deep moans and breathy sighs coming from Blaine's mouth as they kissed. He gave up his attentions to Blaine's body in favor of rubbing himself against Blaine's thigh.

"Oh no you don't," Blaine said, causing Kurt to jerk back in alarm.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I– I was feeling, well…I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."

"Kurt," Blaine said, leveling Kurt with an affectionate gaze. "It's fine, but I wanted to show you a better way."

Kurt smiled at him and barely had time to absorb Blaine's words before he was being flipped over on his back and Blaine was straddling his hips.

"The boys all used to do this in school to relieve stress," Blaine said. "Even the ones who didn't particularly like boys." His eyes danced with a teasing light as he raised his hips and thrust forward so that the head of his cock pressed into Kurt's before he dipped his hips down and pulled back again.

The feeling of all-over bliss was hard to escape as the sensation ricocheted through his body. Every time Blaine's erection pushed under the head of Kurt's cock, he gasped, the sheer pleasure of the feeling almost too much to bear. It wasn't quite as intense as when Blaine used his mouth, but it was equally pleasurable in its own way. And this way Kurt could watch the wonderful expressions that played across Blaine's face as they shared their ecstasy.

The drag of their skin was a little rough, and it took them a while to develop a rhythm, but soon Kurt was writhing beneath Blaine and begging for release. As he spilled for the second time that night, Blaine's pace became frenetic; he was chasing his own release as if it might escape him at any moment. Kurt knew the feeling. It was too much and not enough all at once. Never would this ever be enough, he thought.

Just then Blaine's entire body tensed and he shouted out a clipped "Kurt" as he came across Kurt's torso and collapsed on top of him, breathing heavily.

"Well, that was certainly a better way," Kurt said breathlessly. "I think I've found myself a good teacher."

"You learn quickly," Blaine agreed, chuckling lightly.

It took them both a few moments to catch their breath, and at some point Blaine lifted a corner of the sheet to clean them up. Then he reclined against the pillows and pulled Kurt down on top of him, cradling him against his chest. Kurt listened to his heartbeat and felt their breathing sync up. He wondered idly, could there ever be a moment more perfect than this?

* * *

Blaine dozed a little, suspended in that precarious place between asleep and awake. Kurt's body felt warm and pliant against him, a perfect mirror of his own present state. It was the most relaxed he could remember since his childhood.

Kurt lifted his head and smiled at him.

"Have you ever been in love?" he asked, his fingers playing across Blaine's bare chest as his gentle words beckoned Blaine fully awake.

"I thought I was," Blaine replied softly. "Once."

"What happened?"

"The usual," Blaine said. "It wasn't meant to be."

"Tell me about him."

Blaine raised up on his elbows, forcing Kurt to sit up himself. He furrowed his brow at his lover and said, "Why would you want to know about all that?"

"It's part of you, and I want to know. You know you're my first lover. I just want to know about you when you were my age."

Blaine sighed and lowered himself back against the pillows again, folding his arm up underneath his head to support it so he could look down at Kurt as he talked, his other hand absently making patterns on Kurt's smooth, bare back.

"His name was Oliver," Blaine began. "We were schoolmates in England, and he was the only other American in my class, so we struck up a fast friendship and later came home to attend Harvard together. He was the athletic sort." He paused then, unsure how much he wanted to reveal about his initial attraction to Ollie because in many ways Kurt was so different. Where Kurt was lithe and elegant, Oliver had been toned and athletic, with well-defined muscles and a boyish affinity for all things sporting.

But then Kurt tilted his face up, eyes imploring Blaine to continue. Kurt's blue-green depths were so full of affection, Blaine was reminded of how Oliver had once looked at him in the same way, and he knew Kurt might be more like his previous lover than he cared to admit.

"He was a lot like you, though," Blaine said. "He liked to laugh and tease me about my height."

"How did you _know_ about him?" Kurt asked after a pause, his fingers raking through the dark hair decorating Blaine's chest and torso. Kurt's hands felt soft and caring against the coarse texture of it. Blaine closed his eyes and continued.

"It was field day, 1889. He had just won a tug-of-war with his fraternity brothers and they were all posing for a team photograph. All the other boys were looking at the camera, but when I looked up, Ollie was staring at me the way one looks at a lover. I thought I had imagined it, but when the image was printed, there it was, plain as day. I confronted him about it that night. He confessed his feelings for me and cried, apologizing for his depravity. He was so afraid I would reject him."

"Oh, that's awful," Kurt said.

"But then I kissed him," Blaine said, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. "Shut him right up."

Kurt giggled softly. "I bet it did."

"That's how I knew that what I felt for him was more than friendship," Blaine said, "and it's how I knew it would help you decide as well."

"Such a wise man," Kurt said, pressing a soft kiss to Blaine's sternum. After a few quiet moments, he continued, "So what happened with Oliver?"

"We were found out," Blaine said simply, choosing to leave out the details, for they mattered little.

Kurt lifted his head, eyes wide in horror. "Were you arrested?"

Blaine shook his head and ran a hand through Kurt's hair to soothe his worries. "No, my love, but Oliver was sent away. His family thought me a bad influence."

"But it was _both_ of you," Kurt said. "That's not fair."

"Perhaps not, but rarely is life fair."

"Doesn't that make you angry?"

"Of course," Blaine said softly, "but sometimes you have to play the hand you're dealt. And at the time, I thought he'd come back to me when things died down."

Kurt began tracing random patterns over Blaine's belly as they talked. "But he never did?" he asked.

"No," Blaine said solemnly, "he never did."

"That's so sad."

"It was, but then something wonderful happened."

"What's that?" Kurt asked, lifting his head to look at Blaine, while his fingers still traced patterns loosely across Blaine's skin.

"I found you."

Kurt's hand stilled and he leaned up to kiss Blaine, a small, quiet moment in a life of secrets and shame. It would never be enough, to only steal moments with Kurt, but he couldn't give it up, even if he knew he would marry Quinn and Kurt would marry Rachel. They would have to find a way. He couldn't lose Kurt the way he had lost Oliver.

"I love you, you know."

"I know," Kurt replied, resting his head back on Blaine's chest. "I love you too."

Blaine stroked Kurt's back for a while, until Kurt spoke again.

"I won't leave you," he said. "Even if we get caught, we'll figure something out."

Blaine squeezed Kurt tighter, wishing he could fuse their skin together so they'd never have to be apart. He was reminded of Siamese twins he'd once seen at a traveling circus — two identical looking men, joined at the waist since birth. He wondered if he could spend his life never apart from someone else; he decided maybe he could if it was Kurt and it was the only way to be together. That was how he knew Kurt meant what he said, that he would be willing to go through anything to keep them together, even though he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

"I'd rather not get caught, though," Blaine said.

"Me too."

"Let's get some sleep. Jenkins will be here early and you need to be gone before he calls me to breakfast."

"Okay," Kurt said around a yawn.

Blaine kissed him on the forehead, and Kurt pillowed his head against Blaine, quickly falling asleep. Blaine stayed awake for hours, wondering if he'd be able to keep up this charade once they were back in New York. He wracked his brain for answers, and when none came, he quietly drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Blaine awoke shivering as the haze of dawn threatened to steal the night from them. The fire had died sometime in the night, but the room seemed even cooler than normal. Blaine crossed the floor to the fireplace and put a few new logs on, lighting it again and rubbing his arms to keep warm.

Kurt snored softly from the bed, the blankets wrapped around his body like a chrysalis around a butterfly.

The clock on the mantle read just after five-thirty, so they had some time before Kurt had to retreat to the guest room or head back to the hotel. But when Blaine glanced out the window, he noticed the grass and trees were all sparkling with the glossy shine of a thin layer of frost. He could feel a draft seeping in at the base of the window, and the icy bite of the outside air nipped at his bare limbs.

If the city were immobilized thanks to the weather, Kurt wouldn't need to vacate his bed. Blaine smiled to himself as he curled himself up beside Kurt's body, warmth radiating from his fair skin as he slept. Blaine breathed him in, the scent of tobacco still in his hair from the night before, his own musky scent imprinted on Kurt's skin.

He drifted back to sleep, Kurt's imprint on his soul.

When Blaine awoke hours later, the house was still silent. He listened quietly for any sign that Jenkins had come in, but when he heard none, he pressed his lips to Kurt's shoulder and kissed him awake.

Kurt slowly opened his eyes and blinked at Blaine. As the room came into focus around him, his eyes widened, the color draining from his face.

"What time is it?" he said.

"Not sure."

"Blaine, we were supposed to awaken before the sun came up. Jenkins will be here. We're found out."

"Relax," Blaine said, stroking his hand along Kurt's bare arm. "The city is covered in ice. No one is going anywhere for a good many hours."

He felt Kurt's body relax under his touch and a dreamy smile lit up his face.

"Really?" he asked.

"Really and truly," Blaine replied. "We have nothing to do today but stay warm and eat whatever food is left in the pantry. We can read in the library in our dressing gowns or drink our coffee in bed. Or we can simply stay here and share the warmth of our skin until we're so tired we have to sleep again."

He ran his lips along Kurt's shoulder, dropping kisses as he made his way down a strong, pale arm, pausing in the crook of his elbow and then lifting his arm toward his face, leaving a delicate kiss on the tips of his fingers.

"That last item on the list sounded compelling," Kurt breathed.

"Oh, it did?" Blaine smirked and sucked on one of Kurt's fingers before repeating his pattern in reverse. When he reached Kurt's shoulder, he bit down lightly and savored the moan Kurt released.

"How do you know just what to do to make my body ache for you?"

"My heart knows you," Blaine replied. "Our bodies were made to work together in pleasure. Don't you know that?"

"You mock me."

"Never, my darling. I worship you." With that, Blaine began trailing kisses down Kurt's chest and torso.

"Where do you come up with these things?" Kurt said, laughing and batting lightly at Blaine's face, but there was no real intent to stop Blaine's attentions.

"Well, I am a writer."

"A sentimental one, who needs to learn when to bite his tongue."

At Kurt's words, Blaine nipped at his side, forcing his body off the bed in a smooth arc as he moaned out his pleasure.

"I said bite your _tongue_ ," Kurt chastised.

"Silly me," Blaine teased, biting down again on the same spot, and Kurt nearly knocked Blaine off the bed as he writhed amid the tangled sheets.


	8. Chapter 8

PART II

**** February 1895 *****

The city remained quite immobilized for the next few days, even though many of the people vacationing in St. Augustine were used to such cold temperatures in New York. The residents and officials of the small town seemed fairly unsure how to handle the freeze and no one had really brought the type of overcoats and clothing for such a cold snap, so most everyone stayed indoors.

Kurt and Blaine stayed in bed.

With Dr. Anderson and his new bride gone to South Florida on their honeymoon, they had the run of the house. Blaine allowed himself the decadence of fantasizing that he and Kurt were masters of the mansion together and they could live alone and keep house as a married couple would.

He knew it was frivolous, indulgent thinking, but he couldn't help himself even as Kurt's words from the night of the dance rang in his ears. They could never be together in the way that he would be bound to Quinn. It was a fact; one he'd been largely content to ignore until now, but Kurt was right. It would always be a lie.

When they finally emerged from Markland – three days after the wedding – Blaine asked Kurt to take a walk with him, not knowing what he wanted to say, but knowing that whatever it was, it needed to be said in a place where they couldn't touch intimately. He needed to have his wits about him. The scrutiny of public opinion would force him to keep his distance and prevent Kurt's glorious pale pink skin from tempting him into silence yet again as he explored and worshipped and fell under Kurt's spell.

"You look troubled," Kurt said as they made their way through the plaza and toward the bay front. "Should I be worried?"

Blaine tried to smile reassuringly, but even he could feel the tug of melancholy on his lips and the dim light of doubt shining through his eyes.

"We need to talk," Blaine said.

Kurt's shoulders tensed; he lifted his head higher and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. Blaine had already come to know this as his defense: look tall and proud and no one could hurt you.

"Please don't shut me out," Blaine implored, wishing suddenly he could take Kurt in his arms.

"I'm just bracing myself," Kurt said, his jaw tense as he refused eye contact. "You're obviously done with me now that you've gotten what you want."

"Oh, no," Blaine said unable to stop himself from grabbing Kurt by the arm and halting his steps. "Not even close."

Kurt smiled hesitantly. "Then what is it you want to talk about?"

Blaine scuffed his shoe against a brick in the walkway and took a deep breath.

"What you said the other night about living a lie…"

Kurt raised an eyebrow, but didn't speak. He let Blaine take his time to gather his words.

"You're right," he continued finally. "And I hate living a lie. I've been doing it all my life."

"Then what has changed?"

"You," Blaine said simply. "I didn't expect to ever meet someone like you, and now… Well now, I don't want to live the lie anymore. I was content enough to concede to my parents' wishes and marry before, but now I know what true love feels like, and it's like trading gold for brass. It has all the shine, but none of the value."

"It's just like everything else in this world," Kurt said, looking out over the choppy waters of the bay as a biting breeze wafted toward them.

"How do you mean?"

Kurt turned and leveled Blaine with a piercing gaze. "All the gilt… all the shine and splendor," he said, "it's just that. A shiny layer of easily removed decoration that no matter how often you polish it or try to pass it off as the real thing, it will never be real… because reality isn't pretty. No one wants to live with the shadow of death or the harsh truth of poverty or even forced marriage. It's easier to pretend it's fulfilling and the real deal."

"My precious maddening man," Blaine said, his hand drifting up to cup Kurt's cheek before he remembered where they were, and he clenched it at his side. "How do you understand things I'm only now coming to know?"

"I can't help it," Kurt said with a shrug. "I'm a realist."

His words sounded serious and resigned, but there was a mirthful light in his eyes. Blaine smiled.

"What we have is real, though. I never want you to doubt that."

"I won't," Kurt said. "Besides, I don't plan on letting you go that easily."

"Oh, really now," Blaine replied. "And just how had you planned to keep me?"

"I'll think of something," Kurt said as he began walking again.

"I'm sure you will."

Blaine kept up with Kurt's longer strides and stole glances of his lover. There was no way he could give this up. Not now.

"Mr. Flagler offered me a job, you know," Blaine said, needing to make conversation.

"I hadn't realized."

Kurt kept walking but the set of his shoulders belied his curiosity.

"Apparently the Flagler System is opening a new hotel in New York and they want me to run it."

Kurt stopped short. "Have you ever run a hotel before?" he asked.

"No, but I used to help my father with the bookkeeping for his practice. I suppose that's all they need. Someone to look after expenses while Harry looks after the Florida hotels."

"But your writing," Kurt said.

"Well, if I'm to marry…" Blaine said. He didn't finish his sentence because it didn't need to be said. Kurt knew as well as he did that a man needed to provide for his family.

"It's just like me working for Mr. Ford," Kurt said. "Why must we give up on our dreams to meet expectations?"

He sat down on the sea wall facing the water and Blaine joined him. He knew Kurt meant more than taking jobs they didn't want. Everything was a compromise for them.

"Because we are good men," Blaine said, "and we will do what is expected of us."

He glanced around them, and seeing that they were quite alone, slipped his hand over Kurt's, grabbing the other man's fingers and drawing him closer. As he did so, Kurt rubbed his thumb along Blaine's fingers.

Obligation dictated their every move and their lives would be shaped by it, but for now they had this moment, and for now, it would have to be enough.

* * *

"It's just so depressing," Quinn said. "Everything looks just as bleak and dead as it does at home."

Blaine nodded ruefully at her words. Everything had changed with the hard freeze. Sadly, the gorgeous flowers, including the orange blossoms, had frozen on their branches during the ice storm, leaving blackened shrubbery and dead, lifeless limbs in its wake.

When the ice finally thawed, the city seemed to have died a little with it, many of the guests of Flagler's three hotels leaving the city for alternate locations. The Fabrays had stayed; Blaine assumed it was because Quinn's parents suspected he would propose any day now, and they didn't want to risk being out of sight for too long.

"I don't suppose we'll get the blooms back any time soon," Blaine said, Quinn's arm cradled delicately against his elbow as they walked the hotel grounds. Her mother sat in the shade of the loggia, wrapped in a long cloak and covered in a thick blanket, watching them to ensure nothing improper happened between them.

Blaine nearly laughed at the notion. His desire to besmirch Quinn's reputation couldn't be more nonexistent. Burt Hummel was the one who should be concerned.

Kurt had kept his distance, though, since the ice had thawed, and after explaining to his father that he and Blaine had gotten trapped in Markland waiting out the storm. It was probably for the best; they needn't start any gossip about them spending too much time together. The three days trapped inside made sense; continuing to pursue each other's company once they were free for other activities just looked suspicious.

The wait to see Kurt alone again was killing him.

"I heard Mrs. Howell say there is to be a cake walk next week," Quinn said, tilting her head and glancing sideways at Blaine. "They're said to be quite entertaining."

"Indeed," he replied.

"Mother says it's improper to go without an escort," she added.

"Your mother hopes I will escort you?" He asked, realizing Quinn was gently nudging for an invitation.

Quinn smiled at him and nodded politely. Blaine stopped walking and released her arm.

"Miss Fabray," Blaine said as he turned to face her, sweeping into a shallow bow, "would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the cake walk this Saturday next?"

"I think it's a Friday," Quinn replied, stifling a giggle behind a gloved hand.

"Details," Blaine said, taking her arm once again and leading them around the fountain for a third time since they'd begun their walk. There was something to be said for the redundancy of their path as they circled round and round the courtyard as if it weren't the most futile of exercises. "The point is, I've asked you a question, and you haven't answered."

She smiled but did not glance over at him – always the picture of propriety.

"Yes, Mr. Anderson," she said. "I will attend the cake walk with you." She paused as a devilish smile teased at the corners of her mouth before she schooled her expression. "That is, if my father allows it."

"You tease me, Miss Fabray."

Blaine couldn't deny he was fond of this young woman. Even if he had no desire to marry, at least he could choose his match, and Quinn Fabray would never be dull. She had a good head on her shoulders and interests that she and Blaine could share. He only hoped when the time came, she wouldn't be too terribly disappointed in their lack of intimacy.

"Oh, there's your friend Mr. Hummel," she said, pointing toward the archway leading into the hotel's lobby. "Isn't he cold dressed like that?"

Blaine's eyes shot up, seeing Kurt entering the courtyard with a book under his arm. He was wearing a light-weight checked suit, a sharp contrast with the drab colors everyone had taken to wearing since the temperatures took a downturn. It made Blaine's heart soar to see him defying expectation like that. Every tiny act of rebellion Kurt made reminded him that he was risking everything too, that hey were in this together.

"We should go say hello," Blaine said, tugging lightly on Quinn's arm.

"Whatever you want," she said, but Blaine could tell she wasn't thrilled at the prospect. He squared his shoulders and led her over to where Kurt was now seated underneath a tree, his book open in his lap.

"Good afternoon, Kurt," he said.

A pair of blue-green eyes met his with carefully concealed adoration. The corners crinkled ever so slightly, but his smile remained polite and friendly. Blaine bit the inside of his own cheek to keep from blurting out his undying devotion for this man on the spot.

"Hello, Blaine," he said. "Miss Fabray. Lovely day, isn't it?"

"I'm just glad the sun came back out," Quinn said. "I was getting so bored being locked up inside with only my mother for company."

"I didn't mind it so much," Kurt said.

Blaine inhaled sharply, covering his surprise with a cough. Quinn patted his arm and looked at him with concern.

"Are you alright?" she inquired.

"Excuse me," Blaine said. "Just a tickle in my throat."

"I hope you're not coming down with something," Kurt said, smirking at him while Quinn continued to look at Blaine with concern.

"I'm sure I'll be fine," Blaine replied, turning his gaze to Quinn, mostly to keep himself from laughing at Kurt's bemused expression.

"Maybe we should go sit down," Quinn said.

"You go join your mother," Blaine said. "I'll only be a moment."

Quinn reluctantly left, nodding to Kurt before allowing her gaze to linger on Blaine for a few moments.

"Don't be long," she said.

"I won't."

When she was a safe distance away, Blaine looked down at Kurt who was pretending to be engrossed in his book.

"Well, she has you well-trained already."

"Don't," Blaine urged. "You know I have to do this."

"I know," Kurt said, not looking up. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

"No, I suppose not."

"Are you spoken for all day?" Kurt asked after a moment.

"Mrs. Fabray usually takes an afternoon nap, and she won't leave Quinn alone with me. So I should be free until dinner."

"And after that?"

"What did you have in mind?" Blaine asked, hoping Kurt was thinking the same thing he was.

Kurt glanced up quickly and smiled before returning to his book.

"I was thinking of calling on a friend of mine," Kurt said. "Do you suppose he'll be home?"

"I can almost guarantee that he will," Blaine said, glancing over his shoulder at the Fabray women. They were studying him intently, so he lowered his voice and clenched his teeth around his whispered words. "I'll meet you by the back gate as soon as Jenkins heads home for the evening. I'll blow out one of the lanterns on the front porch so you'll know it's safe."

Without looking up, Kurt nodded and said at full volume, "Have a pleasant afternoon, Mr. Anderson. Perhaps I'll see you at dinner."

"Good day," he replied and crossed the courtyard to sit with Quinn and her mother, hoping he could hide his distraction until they retired to their rooms.

* * *

Dinner took longer than Blaine wanted, Mr. Fabray insisting they have cigars in the smoking room after dinner. So by the time he returned to Markland, Jenkins had already gone home for the evening, leaving Blaine's pajamas laid out on his bed and a warm fire burning in the hearth.

Blaine raced to the front porch to extinguish a lamp, hoping Kurt hadn't given up on him yet, and then he ran to the back gate to wait for his lover to appear.

He didn't have to wait long, as he spotted a dark figure strolling toward him; Blaine felt his face break into a wide grin as the man approached. Only it wasn't Kurt.

It was Felix de Crano.

"Good evening, Mr. Anderson," he said. "You're out late."

"Um, yes… I was looking for one of my cufflinks," Blaine replied, thinking quickly. "I seem to have dropped it on my way home and I was retracing my steps."

"I find that's usually the best way to find lost things."

"Indeed. Why are you out so late?" Blaine inquired.

"Same reason as you."

"You lost a cufflink?"

"Kurt asked me to come."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Blaine said, his brow furrowed as he spoke. "Why did he send you?"

"Mr. Hummel is sick," the man said. "He said you would be waiting and I should tell you not to worry. He'll be on his feet in no time."

"I wondered why he wasn't at dinner," Blaine said, mostly to himself. "Is he alright?"

"He's a strong young man," de Crano added.

"You know him well," Blaine replied. He'd grown fond of this eccentric painter, and how he seemed to understand everything just a moment before he and Kurt did. Blaine wondered if he knew the true nature of his and Kurt's relationship and whether he approved. "Do you know what happened?"

"I stopped by to deliver a sketch Kurt had made and he nearly collapsed in the lobby. He began running a fever this afternoon and his father won't let him leave the room until the doctor's seen him."

"Oh, goodness, how soon do you think the doctor will come?" Blaine asked. He was desperate for information, but also knew he needed to conceal his heightened anxiety so as not to further rouse Mr. de Crano's suspicions.

"I am not sure. His father was having trouble finding one who would come to the hotel. He was looking for a nurse friend when I left."

"Which nurse?" For once, Blaine wished his grandfather was home.

"Mrs. Hudson I think he said. She's a guest at the hotel."

"I should help them find a doctor," Blaine said. "If only my grandfather wasn't on his blasted honeymoon."

"Mr. Hummel seemed to have it under control. You should get some rest. Go see him in the morning." The old man paused and smiled at Blaine. "Don't worry, Mr. Anderson, your friend is in good hands, and his father is worried enough for you both."

That didn't reassure Blaine much, even as he smiled at the painter and bid him goodnight. Blaine paced the hallway for hours that night, unable to sleep. He stopped himself from racing to Kurt's room several times, and just as the sun was coming up, he changed his suit and headed over to the hospital to talk to Dr. Smith.

Frank Smith was a good physician who often filled in for Blaine's grandfather; he'd done a lot of work with consumption in his career, so Blaine knew Kurt would be in good hands.

"Blaine," the doctor said, rising up from his chair. "Isn't this a surprise? I wasn't expecting you."

"I'm afraid this isn't a social call," Blaine replied, urgency flooding his veins. He desperately wanted to get Dr. Smith back to the Ponce to take a look at Kurt.

"Are you feeling alright, my boy?" Dr. Smith asked, looking at him with concern.

"Yes, quite," Blaine said. "It's my friend – he's a guest at the hotel. He collapsed yesterday with a fever and I was hoping you'd see him."

"Any other symptoms?" Dr. Smith asked, grabbing his bag and following Blaine out the front door.

"I'm not sure," Blaine replied. "I just know that he collapsed and was feverish. I haven't seen him since yesterday afternoon."

"Why didn't you fetch me sooner? You know I would have come."

Blaine didn't respond. He wasn't sure why he didn't think to call on Dr. Smith the night before. Perhaps he was worried about appearances if he showed up unannounced in the middle of the night because a friend had fallen ill. A wife, maybe, but a friend — especially Kurt — he'd have to explain. There would be questions, like how he knew that Kurt was ill, or worse, why he was waiting on Kurt at his home after midnight. Any of that could easily get back to his grandfather, and the thought terrified him.

Blaine felt like a coward. The first test of his devotion to Kurt and he had failed.

They were silent the rest of the walk to the hotel, Blaine shoving his hands deep in his pockets and walking as briskly as he could with the elderly doctor in tow.

Dr. Smith didn't question Blaine when he knew right where the Hummels' room was, and when Burt's shocked face appeared at the door, he wasted no time.

"Mr. Hummel, this is Dr. Smith. I asked him to come see Kurt."

"How long has he been feverish?" Dr. Smith asked, pushing his way past Burt and into the room without an invitation.

"Just since yesterday before dinner. He was complaining of some nausea and a headache and then he fainted."

"Any other symptoms since?"

"He won't eat anything, and says he's achy all over."

"We had a few patients with similar symptoms at the hospital last week," Dr. Smith said, nodding. "We suspect a mild yellow fever outbreak, but we've only seen one severe case, and he's been quarantined since last Tuesday."

Burt led the doctor into Kurt's room without another word, and when the door shut behind Dr. Smith, Burt turned to Blaine.

"Thank you," he said.

"My pleasure," Blaine replied. "If my grandfather wasn't on his honeymoon, he'd have come himself."

He wasn't sure if that was true, but it felt like the right thing to say.

Burt slumped down in an armchair near the fireplace and dropped his head into his hands. He looked exhausted.

"How is he?" Blaine asked.

"Not good. He's been in and out all night."

"Mr. de Crano said you had a nurse come see him?"

"Ah, so that's how you knew Kurt was sick," Burt said, wiping his hand across his face and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "My friend Mrs. Hudson did some volunteer work at the hospital back home and she was the only person I knew who would come."

Blaine didn't press further. He knew the doctor would have more answers anyway, and he was thankful to Mrs. Hudson for getting Kurt, and Burt, through the night.

The wait felt excruciatingly long, the ticking of the clock on the mantel the only sound in the stuffy room. Blaine pulled out a cigarette and offered one to Burt, but he declined, opting instead to pace the room like an expectant father. Maybe in a way he was – praying for his son to have life.

When Dr. Smith finally emerged, Blaine had smoked three cigarettes and begun pacing the floor in alternate time with Burt.

"He's quite feverish still," Dr. Smith said. "His symptoms indicate a mild case of yellow fever, but he needs to rest. The fever should break on its own in a couple of days, but I've given him something to help him sleep. Just send someone to fetch me if he gets any worse or if his symptoms change, and I'll be back to check on him tomorrow morning."

"Thank you doc," Burt said, shaking the man's hand. "I'll have some money wired down—"

Dr. Smith waved him off. "No need. Any friend of the Andersons is a friend of mine. Just make sure he rests."

"Thank you," Burt said to Blaine. "Kurt's lucky to have a friend like you."

"Can I see him?" Blaine asked, not really sure to whom he was directing the question.

Burt glanced over at the doctor questioningly and Blaine's heart fell as he saw the man shake his head.

"He really should rest," Dr. Smith said, clapping Blaine on the shoulder. "Why don't you buy me breakfast?"

Blaine nodded reluctantly and followed the doctor out of the Hummels' sitting room.

"He'll be fine," he said to Blaine as they descended the stairs.

"I know," Blaine said, even though he didn't believe it. He wouldn't feel reassured until his saw Kurt's rosy cheeks and heard his bright laughter.

* * *

Two days later, Kurt's fever broke and Blaine received word that he could visit. He practically ran all the way to the Ponce and up three flights of stairs, taking them two at a time.

He was panting when Burt opened the door.

"Mr. Hummel, I heard Kurt was doing better. Do you mind if I say hello?" Blaine asked.

"Just keep it brief," Burt said. "I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."

Blaine entered the room slowly, taking in the scene before him. Kurt was lying flat on his back, the blankets pulled up tightly around him; his face was wan and his cheeks hollow, but he didn't look too bad, all things considered.

"Hey there," Blaine said.

At the sound of his voice, Kurt's head turned slowly and Blaine could see him try to smile around a wince of pain.

"Blaine," he said, his voice sounding hollow and thick from three days of fever. Kurt struggled to sit up, propping himself up on his elbows and nearly collapsing from the effort.

"Don't," Blaine said. "You're still weak."

"I guess I shouldn't have teased you that you were coming down with something," Kurt rasped, dropping back down onto the pillows.

"Hush," Blaine said, chancing a caress to Kurt's flushed cheek. "What did the doctor say?"

"To let the fever run its course. Stay in bed; get some rest. The usual."

"Well that shouldn't be too hard," Blaine said, forcing a smile as he tried to provide some levity. "You can barely move."

"A temporary setback, I assure you."

"He'll be on his feet in no time." Burt had appeared at Blaine's left side and was trying to look stern even as he smiled warmly at his son. "But he needs his rest."

"I'll be back to see you later," Blaine said. "Maybe I'll bring something to read to you?" He turned to face Burt, seeking his approval.

"I suppose that would be alright," Burt said. "But just for a little while. He's still recuperating."

"Of course," Blaine said, smiling brightly. He leaned down and rested a hand on Kurt's shoulder. "I'll be back around tea time."

"Looking forward to it," Kurt said. "It's just been me and the old man for the last three days. I'm sick of his face."

"That's the thanks I get for nursing you back to health," Burt chided as he turned to Blaine. "Do you see what I have to put up with?"

"I'm sure he's a horribly demanding patient."

They chuckled as Kurt tried his best to pout at their teasing.

"If I wasn't an invalid right now, I'd lock you both in here so you only had each other for company and see how you'd like it."

"Ah, but you _are_ still an invalid," Burt said. "So I guess you're stuck."

Kurt rolled his eyes, and at the sight, Blaine took the first deep breath he felt he'd gotten in days.

Kurt was on the mend.

* * *

When Blaine returned that afternoon, a copy of "Through the Looking Glass" under his arm, Kurt still looked pale, but was sitting up. He smiled at Blaine through bleary eyes.

"Hello, stranger."

"Ready for my incredibly ridiculous voices for the Red Queen and White Knight?"

"If not, I'll just pretend to fall asleep and you'll have to leave."

Blaine placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "You cut me to the quick, Mr. Hummel. I came to do my duty and read to the invalids of this fine establishment and this is the thanks I get?"

"Well, don't let me keep you if you have other patients to attend to," Kurt teased.

"I'm so glad you're better," Blaine whispered, leaning over Kurt and stroking his hair. "If something had happened…" He trailed off, unable to finish his sentence.

Kurt reached up and laid his hand on Blaine's cheek and gazed lovingly into his eyes. "I'm sorry I worried you," he said.

Blaine placed his hand over Kurt's and nuzzled into his palm, reveling in the closeness for a moment. Burt was in the other room, but they were far from alone. The little bit of contact would have to do for the moment.

Pulling back reluctantly, he sat in the chair next to Kurt's bed, adjusting his jacket and opening the book. He read to Kurt for a while, Kurt laughing at his voices and chiming in on his favorite parts. Gradually his responses grew softer and there were longer pauses in between. Blaine imagined Kurt was growing tired.

"Would you like to get some sleep?" he asked when he reached the end of the next chapter.

When Kurt didn't respond, Blaine looked up to find him slumped back against the pillows. At first he thought Kurt had fallen asleep, but then he noticed Kurt's eyes were rolled back in his head. Blaine's heart began to race as he slowly rose from the chair.

"Kurt?"

He didn't respond.

"Kurt!"

Blaine shook him, but his head just lolled on his shoulders, and even through the fabric of his night shirt, Blaine could feel how hot his skin had become.

"Oh, god, you're burning up… Burt!"

* * *

"I'm afraid it's gotten more severe," Dr. Smith said when he had finished examining Kurt. "And it's definitely yellow fever."

"Oh, god," Burt said from where he was standing in the doorway of Kurt's room and leaning heavily on the frame.

"Will he pull through?" Blaine asked, swallowing thickly around a tongue that felt two sizes too big for his mouth.

"If he makes it through the night, he's got a good chance of surviving it. But we won't know until the fever breaks. Let's just pray he doesn't start throwing up blood."

Burt looked positively stricken, and Blaine wanted to collapse to his knees, but somehow managed to hold it together.

Over the course of the next two days, Kurt's skin took on an unnatural yellow hue and his fever returned even hotter than before.

Blaine kept vigil at his bedside, even as Dr. Smith reassured them that Kurt's symptoms weren't uncommon with yellow fever. His assurances did little to alleviate Blaine's concerns, though; Kurt's conditioned seemed to deteriorate by the day. On the third evening, after Kurt had a mild seizure and was admitted to the hospital, Blaine sent a wire to his grandfather in Miami letting him know of Kurt's condition and asking him to return home.

The reply was addressed to Dr. Smith.

_Heard of yellow fever outbreak. The freeze should have killed the mosquitoes. Will be home end of month as planned._

"What in blazes do mosquitoes have to do with anything?" Blaine said after he'd read the telegram for the fourth time. He balled up the paper in his fist and threw it in the trashcan next to Dr. Smith's desk.

"Your grandfather believes this new theory that yellow fever is spread through mosquito bites. With the freeze, well… no more mosquitoes."

"I don't care about an outbreak," Blaine muttered. "What about Kurt?"

"I've told you there's not much we can do but try to keep his fever down. Watch him for the black vomit."

"And just wait? Hope he doesn't die?"

"You could try praying," Dr. Smith suggested.

"I think I'm going to go home," Blaine said, refusing to acknowledge the suggestion.

"Good," Dr. Smith said. "Get some rest. We can't have you falling ill from exhaustion."

Blaine smiled half-heartedly and headed north toward Markland, barely feeling his feet as he walked. He'd spent two full days at the hospital, despite how it appeared to everyone else. He didn't care. He just wanted Kurt back.

As he crossed King Street and passed the entrance to the Ponce, he heard a familiar voice call out to him. He turned toward the voice to find Quinn, dressed in a pale pink frock and carrying two small bundles.

"I thought that was you," she said as he approached.

"Good morning," Blaine said.

Quinn tilted her head and studied him for a moment before correcting him.

"Afternoon," she said.

"I'm sorry… I've been at the hospital," he said. "I must have lost track of the time."

"Seeing Mr. Hummel again?" She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips.

"He's quite ill," Blaine said, feeling suddenly exhausted and just wanting to go home to bathe and change out of his stale clothes.

"I heard."

Her words were clipped and her countenance pinched. Even in his haggard state, Blaine could sense her ire, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Miss Fabray," he said, pinching his nose between two fingers. Suddenly his head felt as if it were throbbing and he wanted to get out of the sun. Everything felt too acute; the sun too warm on his face. "My apologies that I haven't called on you in a few days. With my grandfather gone I've been helping Dr. Smith with his patients. I'm sure you understand."

Her face softened a little at that. Perhaps she believed his lie.

"Will you still be escorting me to the cake walk on Friday?"

In all the worry over Kurt's health, he'd forgotten completely about it.

"Of course," he said, chin held high. "I promised, didn't I?"

He would not go back on his word, even as his heart ached knowing Kurt may not make it to see the sun rise. He sent up a silent prayer: he would do his duty and fulfill his obligations, and even ask Quinn to marry him, if only God would let Kurt live.

"Good thing I bought a new hat, then," Quinn said, holding up the larger of the two parcels she carried. She smiled and bounced a little on the balls of her feet, a gentle reminder that she was only 17 and still held onto some of her childish impulses. Blaine often wished she'd let that side of her show more often. He quite liked it. It reminded him of Kurt.

Blaine smiled half-heartedly and said, "I'm sure it's lovely."

Quinn's top lip quivered slightly, the only indication that she was disappointed in Blaine's less than enthusiastic response.

"Well, I'll let you get home," she said, mask of politeness firmly in place. "I'm sure you want to get cleaned up."

"Yes, it's been a long night," Blaine said. "Give my regards to your parents?"

"I will," she said. "Good afternoon, Mr. Anderson."

He tipped his hat to her and continued west toward Markland. He wanted to get cleaned up and head back to the hospital. If this were to be Kurt's last night on earth, he wanted to share it with him.

* * *

By the time Blaine returned to Alicia Hospital that evening, Burt had gone back to the hotel to sleep, Dr. Smith urging him to rest now that he had sedated Kurt. If the fever didn't break soon, there was little hope for his recovery, and no point in Kurt's father being there to see that.

"Is he still feverish?" Blaine asked.

"No change," Dr. Smith replied as he held his fingers over Kurt's wrist and measured his pulse. "But at least he hasn't gotten worse."

"His color looks better. Don't you think?"

"Blaine," the doctor said, leveling him with his gaze. "Please don't get your hopes up unnecessarily. I've told you what to expect. All we can do now is wait."

"Yes, sir."

"I thought you were going to get some rest, anyway."

"I don't want him to be alone," Blaine said, looking down at his lover. "No one should be alone when they die."

"How right you are," Dr. Smith said, resting a hand on Blaine's shoulder. "You're a good man. You'd have made a fine doctor."

Blaine smiled up at him and bid him goodnight before taking a seat beside Kurt's bed and gripping the man's hand tightly.

"Kurt," he whispered. "Please come back to me."

There was nothing but silence, and Kurt slept on –– albeit fitfully.

Blaine stroked Kurt's hand as he held it in his own, the gesture a faint shadow of what he felt for the man. Everything he had ever known had changed when Kurt Hummel entered his life, and he had no idea what he'd do without this man in it.

"Quinn wants me to take her to that confounded cake walk on Friday, but I can't bear it if you're not there. All the color, the music, the laughter, it just pains me without you here. Please, please get better."

It was idle chatter, but it made him feel less useless, less alone. Maybe Kurt could hear him. Blaine glanced down at their joined hands and felt sick at the sight of Kurt's jaundiced skin, a sharp contrast to his usually peachy complexion. His beautiful man –– a shell of himself, a phantom who might soon be a ghost.

Blaine began to sing softly to Kurt –– a nameless melody that he'd begun humming whenever he thought of Kurt. Tears streamed down his face as he sang, but he didn't reach up to wipe them away; he just let them fall, garbling his notes as he choked on his own sorrow.

When the final notes of his song had ceased their echoes around the room, he leaned down and kissed Kurt's warm cheek. It was still heated from the fever and his face was hollowed from the weight loss, but he was still as beautiful as ever.

Blaine's tears began to fall heavier then as he leaned his forehead against Kurt's temple and sobbed, his tears dripping down onto the pillow and drenching them both. He choked on his own breath as he released his pent up anguish and allowed himself to feel everything he'd been holding back for days.

There had to be a way – something he could do to make Kurt better.

"If only I'd studied medicine as my father had wanted," he said to the quiet room. "I'm sorry, Kurt. I'm sorry I can't help you."

His breath evened out as his tears subsided. When his crying finally ceased, he wiped his face with his sleeve, not caring if he ruined the fabric. He reached down and stroked Kurt's hair away from his forehead, running his fingers through the thick strands.

"I love you," he whispered.


	9. Chapter 9

Kurt blinked, but his eyelids felt heavy and weak; he could barely lift them, and when he did he had difficulty focusing on the shapes and colors around him. Everything was in a fog, especially his brain. And he kept imagining Blaine reciting the Jabberwocky poem.

" 'Twas brillig and the slithy toves," Kurt muttered.

"What?" a voice replied.

Kurt turned his head toward the sound, but he couldn't focus on the shape. It was a blur of beige and black and the edges were fuzzy, like a thick wool blanket.

"Beware the jabberwock, my son."

"Kurt?"

He knew that voice.

* * *

Another familiar beige and black shape was there when he awoke again, but this time, it sounded like it was crying. It shook and shook and then was silent.

Dorian shouldn't be made to cry, he thought. He's far too pretty for that.

Kurt tried to speak, say something to soothe the crying thing, but the words wouldn't come. His tongue felt thick, his lips dry and cracked.

He drifted.

* * *

The next thing Kurt remembered was a throbbing behind his eyes, an incessant thump, thump, thump of staccato pain as a bright light tried to burrow behind his eyelids and crack open his skull with its maddening existence.

He just wanted to sleep, but his body felt stiff and his limbs weak.

Kurt tried to move his arm, but found it immobilized underneath the weight of a rumpled lump of fabric. No, not _just_ fabric. The lump was warm and breathing, and it had dark, wavy hair and smelled of tobacco.

There was something familiar about it.

"Blaine?"

The word was out of his mouth before the thought fully formed, and the sound that came out of his mouth was raspy and tremulous, but it was most definitely his voice.

Blaine didn't move, but Kurt knew it was him. Kurt glanced around the room, again noticing how bright it was. It wasn't his room at the Ponce. Where was he?

Kurt craned his neck in an effort to see more of his stark surroundings, but all he could see was white, and his eyes were still unable to focus because everything was so bright. A small figure appeared at his side, and he could just make out her white apron and cap against the darker colors of her dress and hair – a nurse, his mind supplied.

"Mr. Hummel, you're awake," the nurse said, sounding utterly shocked.

Kurt tried to nod or say hello, but the weight of his own head seemed too much for him, and he just blinked at her.

"Don't try to talk," she said. "You've been out of it for days. Mr. Anderson here barely left your side."

Kurt tried to turn his head to face Blaine, but to no avail. He was trapped in his own body. What had happened to him? He was dying to ask the nurse, but she was busy puttering about and making a fuss over him, checking his temperature, inspecting his skin and eyes.

"You must be thirsty," she said. "I'll fetch you some water."

And then she was gone.

Kurt lifted his hand, but it only got a few inches off the mattress before it dropped to his side again. He wanted to wake Blaine, but he couldn't will his body to cooperate, his hand falling again and again as he tried to lift it.

"Blaine," he said, his voice barely a whisper, not nearly loud enough to wake him.

The nurse soon returned with some water and helped to angle Kurt's head up so he could drink. Swallowing took every effort he had, but the cool liquid felt divine on his tongue and he lapped at it hungrily.

She eased his head back onto the pillow and pulled the sheet tight around him. Blaine still didn't stir. Kurt glanced at him forlornly, but didn't have the strength to ask the nurse to wake him.

"Get some rest," she said, patting his arm. "I'll be back to check on you in a bit."

When she was gone, Kurt tried again to lift his arm, but it was in vain; he was too weakened to manage it, and as his head began to feel foggy again, he started to drift once more. Even as he fought unconsciousness, he wished Blaine would awaken so he could catch a glimpse of his golden eyes and warm smile.

* * *

It was another day before Kurt regained consciousness long enough to converse with anyone, and when he awoke, Blaine was there.

"Look who decided to wake up," Blaine said. His eyes were bloodshot and his face worn, but he looked positively perfect to Kurt.

"You're here," Kurt said.

"Of course I am," Blaine replied, his smile growing wider by the moment. "Where else would I be?"

Kurt's eyes darted around the room, and only when he decided they were quite alone, he spoke in a low voice.

"But your grandfather… the Fabrays… everyone will talk."

Blaine scoffed. "Let them. I wanted to be with you."

"Blaine, we must be careful."

"You nearly died."

"But I didn't," Kurt insisted. He still didn't know what had happened to him; the last thing he remembered was Blaine visiting him in his room at the Ponce. "You were reading to me," he muttered.

"Kurt, that was five days ago," Blaine said. "You collapsed when your fever came back and they brought you here. You've been under quarantine."

"Then how did you–"

"Dr. Smith is a family friend," Blaine replied with a shrug.

"But your grandfather…"

"I really don't want to talk about him right now," Blaine said, his voice firm. "We'll sort it all out later."

Blaine's tone told Kurt to tread carefully, but he was desperately worried about how this all might look. He didn't want people talking about him, but especially not about Blaine… or heaven forbid, his father.

"Where is my father?"

"He went back to the hotel last night on Dr. Smith's orders. I can fetch him for you if you'd like."

Blaine leaned forward and began to stand, but Kurt reached out and laid a hand softly on his arm.

"In a minute," Kurt said.

"I should send word to your father that you're awake."

"Just… stay with me for a moment. Let me look at you."

Blaine's eyes crinkled around the edges as he smiled and blinked back the tears that had begun to pool in his eyes.

"Of course."

Kurt smiled, trying to stop himself from crying. "So tell me what I missed," he said.

"Well, Mrs. Usina had a bouncing baby boy last night…"

"Haven't you left the hospital at all?"

"His name is Michael."

"Blaine," Kurt said, furrowing his brow.

Blaine looked down at his hands, where he had bitten the nails to the quick, and shrugged.

"I didn't want to leave you, Kurt." When he looked up, his wide eyes were brimming with tears. "And when Dr. Smith said you might not make it through the night, well… I just couldn't."

Kurt gripped his hand tightly and squeezed.

"I'm okay," he said.

Blaine reached up and wiped a stray tear from his own cheek.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again," he said, trying to sound stern and failing as he broke into uneven laughter that made Kurt smile.

"I promise," Kurt said, wishing, not for the first time, that he could kiss his lover in public as they stared into each other's eyes.

The silence was broken by Kurt's stomach gurgling loudly, which caused them both to laugh again.

"Shall I fetch the nurse?" Blaine asked. "Tell her you're positively ravenous and to bring the whole cow?"

"Maybe some broth to start with," a woman's voice said from the doorway.

Kurt released Blaine's hand and turned to see a petite nurse with light brown hair and a kind smile.

"I'll just… go fetch your father," Blaine said nervously, and bowed to the nurse before exiting the room.

Kurt reluctantly watched him go, but he was looking forward to see his father; he knew how Burt worried.

"Good morning," the nurse said brightly, as she felt Kurt's forehead and checked his eyes. "You're looking quite chipper. How are you feeling?"

"Tired," Kurt said. "A little woozy, but I'm alive."

"And thank the Lord for that," she replied. "Dr. Smith should be in soon to examine you, but in the meantime, I'll get you something to eat. Just take it easy, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Kurt turned his head toward the open window to his left, and he could hear the sounds of the busy street outside. The smell of the sea wafted toward him as he inhaled deeply, suddenly remembering the hospital was quite close to the bay. His bones ached and his limbs felt weak, but otherwise, he felt good. He felt so alive… and so lucky, although it had little to do with regaining his health. Waking to find Blaine at his bedside, fretting over him as one does with a lover, was worth any illness, even though he hated to make Blaine worry so.

He lay like that for a while, drifting and listening to the birds calling outside, the gentle clamor of carriages and pedestrians passing by. The blue sky peering in painted a glorious backdrop for a beautiful day, and soon he would be out and enjoying it again with Blaine.

A gentle sob from the doorway captured his attention, and he turned to see his dad standing there, tears in his eyes.

"Hi, Pop."

"Well, you're awake," Burt said, "but if you're still calling me Pop I know you're not quite yourself yet."

It hurt a little to laugh, but seeing his father's bright, grateful smile was worth it. Kurt propped himself up on his pillows as best he could and watched as the nurse nudged Burt's shoulder to ease him into the room. He looked reluctant to approach, as if Kurt might disappear if he got too close.

"It's okay," the nurse said. "His fever broke. Quarantine's been lifted."

Burt nodded, gripping the brim of his hat tightly in his hands.

"You're going to ruin the brim if you keep doing that," Kurt said, causing Burt to look down in surprise, as if he hadn't expected to see the hat there. He set it on the table next to Kurt's bed and took the seat Blaine had occupied earlier that morning.

"Where's Blaine?"

Burt inhaled sharply at the mention of the man's name. "He went home to get cleaned up," he said, his jaw set tightly as he spoke. "I told him it was best if he took care of his obligations now that you're awake."

"The nurse said he hasn't left my side."

"Only to sleep... The doctors wouldn't let me in until yesterday when they thought you might not make it," Burt said, pausing to give Kurt a reproachful glance. "I just hope the folks at the hotel don't get wind of it."

"Why should that matter?" Kurt asked.

Burt's face was a solid mask of fatherly concern, his eyes awash in sympathy, but his jaw firm.

"Kurt, it's not appropriate for him to stand vigil at your bedside."

"Because he's a man or because he's wealthy?"

"Because you're engaged," Burt said solemnly. "It's not fair to Rachel."

"This has nothing to do with Rachel," Kurt replied. "Blaine and I are friends."

Kurt could see that his father did not believe his lie, but he did not refute Kurt's claim of friendship. He simply sighed and continued.

"Whatever you are, it only takes a little talk to ruin one's reputation."

"And are people talking?" Kurt asked, lifting his chin a little in defiance, even though they were alone.

"Not yet," Burt replied, but at his son's haughty expression, added, "but you know how precarious our situation is, and there is also Blaine's reputation to consider."

"He doesn't seem to mind."

"Nevertheless, I think _you_ mind, and Kurt… I just don't want to see you get hurt."

"Father, I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."

"I know you are, but soon you'll have a family of your own to consider." He paused, holding Kurt's eye contact firmly. "And one day Blaine will too."

Kurt's heart clenched unexpectedly at that. He knew that Blaine would need to marry, and soon, but knowing did nothing to quell the wave of regret cresting over him as reality nipped at his heels.

"I think he's set to propose to Miss Fabray," Kurt muttered weakly and turned his head away from his father's watchful gaze. Kurt didn't want him to see the heartache written so plainly on his face.

"That seems to be the plan," Burt replied, following Kurt's gaze out the open window.

They sat in silence for a moment, Kurt assuming that neither of them knew what to say. Whether his father was certain of the true nature of his relationship with Blaine seemed to be irrelevant to the matter at hand. This was about status and appearances, and the pretense would have to be maintained, regardless of the truth. They both knew it, and there was nothing more to say.

* * *

By the next morning, Kurt was well enough to leave the hospital, and that afternoon he sat wrapped in a thick blanket, watching Blaine conversing politely with the Fabrays. He looked the picture of decorum and good breeding, especially with Quinn on his arm. She wore a delightful summery dress with puffed sleeves, which had become the fashion recently, but Kurt thought they made the women look as if they could barely fit through doors. Still, the style suited her, and in her trademark pink, made her blonde hair and fair skin look positively radiant. If Blaine had been interested in the charms of women, Kurt supposed he would have been quite pleased to have Quinn Fabray on his arm.

"You look troubled, my friend."

Kurt glanced up to see Felix de Crano standing to his left, a smudge of indigo paint just barely visible under the edge of his hat.

"Good afternoon, Felix," he said in greeting. "I think I'm still tired from the fever."

The painter nodded, and took the empty chair to Kurt's right. The hotel had decorated its lawn in brightly colored paper lanterns and erected a stage in honor of the upcoming cake walk. Several guests were already milling about, enjoying iced tea and finger sandwiches under the shade of the trees.

"I'm glad to see you out and about," de Crano said, leaning back in his chair and fanning his face with his hat. His beard wafted in the self-made breeze, leaving Kurt to wonder what the old man looked like without whiskers.

"The doctor thought it best if I got some fresh air," Kurt said.

"Aren't you warm in that blanket?"

"He insisted I stay bundled until I'm back to full form," Kurt said, pausing to take a deep breath before continuing, "which is ridiculous considering it must be at least 70 degrees out."

"Is he here?"

Kurt's eyes darted to Blaine, who was laughing brightly, his hand placed lightly over Quinn's gloved one where it rested in the crook of his elbow.

"Is who here?"

"Your doctor."

Kurt glanced back to de Crano, tilting his head in inquiry.

"I'm not sure I understand."

"If he's not here, who's to scold you?"

"Fair point," Kurt said with a laugh as he dropped the blanket from around his shoulders. He was still dressed in a heavy overcoat and dark trousers, more than warm enough for the mild temperatures.

Kurt still felt weak, but the sunlight felt good on his face where it broke through the trees and warmed his skin in gentle patches. The doctor had said it would be a while before he felt one hundred percent, but Kurt was just grateful to be out of bed and enjoying the fresh air.

The cakewalk would begin soon and the garden was quickly filling up with hotel guests – ladies dressed in lightweight cotton and lace; gentlemen dressed in brightly colored afternoon suits. It was always Kurt's favorite part of any event the hotel hosted. He had written Rachel that very morning – firstly to assure her he was feeling well and on the mend, but also to recount the new fashions he'd seen. Rachel was reticent to wear the large, billowy sleeves that Miss Fabray had embraced, but Kurt assured her he could make an acceptable alteration that would fit her tiny frame.

He had just noticed a woman in a style he thought Rachel might like when Blaine appeared in his peripheral vision.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Hummel," he said. "You look like you're feeling better."

His smile was practically effulgent as he spoke, and Kurt shifted self-consciously in his seat. He glanced around furtively, hoping no one saw the clear excitement in Blaine's face. A pair of piercing green eyes caught his from across the courtyard; Quinn Fabray was watching both men intently.

"May I sit?" Blaine inquired, greeting Felix with a warm smile and handshake.

"You're sure Miss Fabray won't mind?" Kurt asked, tilting his head slightly in her direction.

Blaine's body stiffened as he glanced over his shoulder and waved at her before returning his attentions to Kurt.

"She'll be alright for a moment. I wanted to see how you were getting on now that the doctor has obviously cleared you for leisure activities."

Kurt, twisting his hands in his lap nervously, hoped Felix hadn't heard the obvious flirtatious tone in Blaine's words. Casting a brief glance to the painter, Kurt saw him smirking at the clearly besotted expression on Blaine's face. Kurt only fidgeted more.

"Gentlemen, I hate to be rude, but I see someone I must speak to," Felix said, rising from his seat and tipping his hat to them.

When he had gone, Kurt turned to Blaine.

"You need to be more careful," he said.

"Oh, he's just an old man," Blaine replied blithely, ignoring Kurt's obvious concern.

"And Quinn?"

"She'll be fine," Blaine said, his brow furrowing as he examined Kurt's face. "What has gotten into you?"

"I'm just not quite myself yet."

"Well, you _look_ much better."

Kurt glanced over to see Blaine's affections practically bubbling up through his eyes. Had he completely forgotten himself?

"Blaine, you really shouldn't," he said, hoping Blaine would understand his meaning. When he received no acknowledgement, he added, "We're in public."

"I know where we are," Blaine huffed. He turned away from Kurt and squinted into the sun, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the sweat from his brow. "When can I see you again?" he asked without turning in Kurt's direction. "When will you be well enough to visit me? My grandfather comes home next week."

"I think you should propose to her," Kurt said suddenly.

Blaine's head snapped around and he was unable to hide the utter shock on his face. Kurt bowed his head to study his hands as he began wringing them in his lap.

"What brought that on?"

"It's time," Kurt said, refusing to elaborate.

"What if I decided I don't want to?"

"We both know you don't have a choice," Kurt said, picking at the pills on the blanket still loosely draped around his lower half. He could feel sweat pooling behind his knees, and he wanted to stand, get out of this place, but he knew his limbs were still weak. He would need to wait for his father to come push his wheeled chair back into the hotel.

"You were the one who said I had a choice," Blaine said, sounding defeated.

Kurt couldn't bear to look at him. He shrugged. "Things change."

"What changed?"

"Me. Us… Everything."

He sighed and dropped his head back on the wicker caning of the chair. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Blaine was studying him intently, but he refused to glance over.

"You didn't leave my bedside for three days," Kurt said. "People will talk… if they aren't already. I think it's best we keep to ourselves for a while."

"But my grandfather will be back soon…" Blaine's voice cracked as he spoke, his words thick with emotion.

"All the more reason to keep our distance."

"But Kurt…"

He glanced over then, but only for a moment. The look of utter despair on Blaine's face nearly broke his heart, but he knew it was for the best. They couldn't afford to have people talking, not now… and not ever.

"I'll be right here," Kurt said. "I'm not going anywhere, but we just need to maintain a more…" He paused and thought about what his father had said and the importance of appearances. "A more appropriate relationship. We can still be friends."

Blaine stood up then, pulling a cigarette from his silver case and lighting it, but he didn't look down at Kurt.

"I will ask her to marry me," Blaine said, his shoulders squared and pulled back proudly. "But I'm not losing you."

And he walked away briskly, crossing the lawn to the Fabrays and taking Quinn's arm effortlessly. If he hadn't been looking for it, Kurt wouldn't have seen the abject tension in his entire body, the way his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, or the reddish-pink tint to the tips of his ears as he seethed silently with anger.

It hurt immensely to see him like that, but Kurt couldn't go after him —and anyway, what else was there to say? They needed to be more careful; this was for the best.

Just then jubilant music started up and one of the waiters, a colored man, stood up to greet them all. He selected six hotel guests as judges who were instructed to take the audience's response into consideration as they watched the colored couples perform their walks.

A parade of hotel staff, mostly waiters and housekeepers, pranced and high stepped around the courtyard in time to the music. The spectators clapped and hooted, tapping their feet in time to the rhythm. It was a spectacle for sure with the Negro couples on display like a circus act. Kurt didn't much care for it, and by the look on Blaine's face, he didn't either. Quinn looked equal parts amused and bored, yet Kurt suspected there were more feelings under the surface, truer ones he couldn't get a read on.

But for the most part, the hotel guests seemed completely entertained by the music and merriment.

The next couple to line up for judging looked familiar, at least the man did; he was Kurt's waiter from the dining room. Kurt clapped loudly for him and craned his neck to see if the judges appeared to like their presentation. There was no visible response, however, and soon another group was making its way around the stage.

Kurt noticed that the ladies were dressed much finer than colored women usually dressed in St. Augustine. It was as if this was the most spectacular event of the season for them. Women in brightly colored dresses and large feathered hats, their dark skin accenting the colorful patterns and embellishments of their attire. The men were just as resplendent in their full morning suits, with shiny top hats on their heads and pristine spats over their shoes.

The men marched in an exaggerated military style, leaning way back and lifting their legs high in the air, swinging the women around whenever they turned. The women held tightly to the men's arms and followed their lead with equal precision, although some had more grace than others, which Kurt assumed was part of the judging. He recognized a few other hotel staffers among the crowd, and he was certain the man on the end, dressed in a fashionable tan-colored suit, was Dr. Anderson's butler, Jenkins.

After several similar presentations that reminded Kurt of exaggerated dancing and a long process of elimination, only four couples remained from the original fifteen.

The music came to an abrupt halt while the judges conferred, causing the crowd to begin shouting for their favorites. Kurt laughed at the spectacle of it all, catching Blaine out of the corner of his eye cheering Jenkins' name as loudly as the rest were shouting names of their own servants.

Soon one of the judges, a tall man Kurt had seen in the smoking room talking to Mr. Barrow, stood and held his arms up to quiet the crowd.

"We have a winner," he bellowed.

He gestured to his right and a waiter wheeled the large cake to the front of the platform. It looked as though the thick icing had begun to melt in the heat, and Kurt wondered if that mattered at all to the winners.

"It was a difficult decision," the man continued. "Several of our colored friends were quite adept at the cakewalk today." He paused for the crowd to clap. "But there can only be one winner." More light applause punctuated his sentence.

"My fellow guests of the Ponce, this lovely cake, and the honor of day goes to Mr. Jenkins of Markland House and Miss Brown of the Alcazar."

Blaine's cheering could be heard over everyone else, even as several guests of the Ponce began to grumble that the head waiter should have won.

"His high steps were much more controlled," one lady said.

"And my maid's dress was much prettier," another said.

"I think it's a little barbaric," a third voice said.

Kurt turned to see who had made the comment, as he was inclined to agree, and came face to face with Quinn Fabray. She held a lacy parasol over her head to shield her fair skin from the sun, and the mottled patterns it made on her face gave her a sinister edge that was at odds with her delicate features.

"Miss Fabray," he said.

She tilted her head in his direction, giving him a polite smile in acknowledgement. "Mr. Hummel, I'm glad to see you're feeling better."

"Why, thank you," Kurt said. When she made no further attempt at conversation, he added, "Did you enjoy the show?"

A laugh that was more sniff than anything else just barely reached Kurt's ears, and he looked up at her. Her head was held high as she watched her parents usher Blaine around, introducing him to all their friends.

"I don't see why we should make such a spectacle of the servants," she said, her eyes narrowed to small slits.

"They seemed to enjoy it," Kurt said, nodding to the participants who were congratulating the winners, their bright, energetic voices carrying across the lawn.

"If you heard the things _people_ were saying," Quinn replied. "It's a way to openly mock them while making them feel like they're part of this." She gestured loosely with a gloved hand toward the hotel. "It's cruel."

"That's a very progressive viewpoint," Kurt said, astounded she was sharing her feelings, let alone with him.

She glanced down and studied Kurt for a moment, her eyes softening slightly when she spoke.

"Yes, well… my parents wouldn't approve," she said, fidgeting with the tassel on the end of her parasol. "My father says this is a way for the Negroes to get all the 'big ideas' out of their system."

"Big ideas?"

Quinn nodded. "You know, like being treated like a person."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience."

"Me?" she said, with a bitter laugh. "I don't get to _speak_ ; I'm a woman. We should be seen and not heard."

"You sound like my fiancée, Rachel," he said. Suddenly Kurt had sympathy for her; perhaps he had misjudged. "And certainly Blaine doesn't make you feel that way," Kurt said, the words tumbling out of his mouth without permission from his brain.

"No," she said with a sigh. "He's actually quite nice to me, and he treats me like a person, which is more than I can say for my father." She paused then, glancing over at her parents, who were laughing with an exaggerated air at something their companions had said. "They're so wretchedly simple. It's all parties and impressing the 'right people' and showing me off. I get so sick of it all the time."

"Have you tried telling them how you feel?"

"It's not that simple," she said. "It's just the way my life is. In many ways, I envy you… no expectations, no stupid society rules."

Kurt was reminded of Blaine, and he realized how much alike they were.

"I still have obligations," he said. "Although, they are ones I don't mind so much."

"Like your fiancée?" Quinn inquired.

"Yes, she's part of it."

"Tell me about her."

"Would you like to see a picture?"

Quinn nodded and Kurt took out the photograph he always carried with him — the same one he'd shown to Blaine that first night. It all seemed so long ago now, and the photo felt like a lifeline — a necessary tether to a life he knew he must embrace, that in some ways he needed like he needed the breath in his body, but that he also felt might suffocate him in the end anyway.

"She's lovely," Quinn said. "You're a lucky young man."

"She's my best friend," Kurt replied automatically. It had become his standard response when anyone asked him about Rachel.

"Then you're both lucky," Quinn said. Something in her expression gave Kurt pause. She sounded almost wistful.

"You could have that too," he said. "Blaine is very fond of you."

"He talks about me?"

Quinn's shock was evident on her face, as if she couldn't believe that Blaine were interested in her beyond her name or her status. Her expression was that of a delighted child who'd just made her first friend, a feeling that Kurt could completely relate to. In that moment, Kurt made a decision to answer her question honestly, even though it was not entirely true — at least not in the way he knew Quinn would likely take it.

"We talk about you all the time," he said.

Quinn's face broke into the first genuine smile Kurt had seen since he first laid eyes on her. Part of him felt dreadful for deliberately deceiving her, but he also wanted to her to be happy and knew that Blaine was fond of her. Why should everyone have to be miserable?

"Well, I didn't expect that," she said, nervously picking at the seams on her gloves. "Although, I'm sure you talk about Rachel all the time too."

"I do," he said.

He'd already decided that he'd devote himself to Rachel when he returned to New York in March. His father's words had made an impression that he felt every time he thought of Blaine. It would be all too easy to shirk his responsibilities and run away with his lover, if it weren't for the promises he had made. No, Kurt had made a promise and intended to fulfill it – no matter how desperately it tore his heart in two.

Quinn smiled again, shifting her parasol to her left hand as she extended her right to Kurt.

"I'm _really_ glad you're feeling better, Mr. Hummel," she said. "Blaine is lucky to have a friend like you."

"Not nearly as lucky as he is to have you," Kurt replied, genuinely meaning it as he squeezed her hand before she walked away to rejoin her parents and Blaine on the other side of the courtyard.

* * *

Dinner with the Barrows had a numbing effect. Kurt and his father arrived late, Kurt still uncertain on shaky legs that were weak from several days of not being used, but he didn't care. It was glorious to be dining with people again and no longer relying on nurses for his lukewarm soup or porridge.

"You're still looking a bit peaky, Kurt," Mrs. Barrow said once they were all seated.

"Better than he looked yesterday," Burt insisted, glancing over to his son and smiling broadly.

"You're sure it's not contagious?" Mr. Barrow asked, covering his mouth and nose with his handkerchief.

"Dr. Smith says there's absolutely no danger," Burt said.

The doctor had said Kurt could leave the chair if he were resting or eating meals, but that he shouldn't walk too far on his own yet. That was fine with Kurt; he still got tired easily and his legs wobbled if he stood too long.

"I hope he knows what he's talking about," Mr. Barrow said, lowering his handkerchief just enough to be polite, but moving his chair just a few more inches away from Kurt.

"I promise I won't get my _disease_ on you," Kurt said.

"Kurt," his father scolded.

"It's quite alright, Burt," Mrs. Barrow said. "John just hates being sick."

She patted her husband lovingly on the arm and gave him a hopeful glance. He nodded curtly and pocketed his handkerchief. Mrs. Barrow looked satisfied with his reaction and returned her attentions to the group. Her eyes darted to the entryway of the dining room and she let out an audible gasp, lifting a gloved hand to her chest.

"Oh, don't they look lovely?" she gushed.

Kurt followed Mrs. Barrow's line of sight; it was the Fabrays entering the dining room, Quinn once again on the arm of Blaine Anderson. He tried to avert his eyes, not wanting Blaine to see him looking, but Blaine caught his eye briefly, giving a single nod in acknowledgement as they crossed the room to their table.

The entire meal, Kurt felt like he was on display, the burn of Blaine's gaze heated even from across the room. Even his own father had taken to glancing over at him with concern in between courses. The Barrows carried on as if nothing was amiss, Mrs. Barrow effusing about the afternoon's cakewalk.

"I don't care what they say about this town," she said. "We've never seen anything so _cultured_ in New York."

Kurt snorted — an undignified response, but no one reacted, so perhaps it didn't matter.

"Yes, it's so very cultured to make a spectacle of _people_ , " he said, mirroring Quinn's words from earlier.

"I'm sorry I missed it," Burt said, trying to draw attention away from his son's cheekiness.

"Where were you?" Mrs. Barrow inquired politely before lifting her spoon delicately to her lips and taking a taste of her soup.

Burt cleared his throat loudly.

"Well, I… uh…"

"With Mrs. Hudson again, you old dog?" Mr. Barrow nudged Burt with his elbow as he burst out with raucous laughter. A lady at the next table turned to glare at him, drawing a sniff from the man.

Burt drew his shoulders back. "Mrs. Hudson and I have both suffered similar losses," he said. Kurt could tell he was fighting to stay calm. "It is nice to talk to someone who understands what it's like to lose a spouse."

Kurt placed a hand on his father's under the table. He knew Burt wouldn't accept outward affection in mixed company, but he hoped the small gesture would comfort him nonetheless. He didn't immediately shrug Kurt off, so he considered that a success, but soon he lifted his hand to the table, and Kurt did the same.

"Forgive my husband," Mrs. Barrow said. "He has all the tact of a herd of elephants."

"It's alright, Mrs. Barrow. I have no secrets." Burt held his head high and challenged John Barrow with a lift of his eyebrow. Kurt grinned proudly, feeling grateful that he had inherited his father's sense of self worth and ability to shirk the judgment of others.

By the time dessert was served, the atmosphere at the table had returned to a respectable level of politeness, and Kurt was so engrossed in the thick chocolate cake in front of him that he didn't see Blaine approach their table.

"Ah, Blaine," Burt greeted. "You look rested."

"Yes, thank you," he said. "I came to see how Kurt is feeling. He still looked a little pale this afternoon at the cakewalk."

Kurt was immediately suspicious, setting his fork down to wait for the man to make his intentions known. Blaine knew perfectly well how Kurt was doing.

He raised his chin, casting Blaine a pointed glance. "I still get tired easily, but I'm doing much better. Thank you."

Blaine opened his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Lowry. As they greeted the Barrows with the usual pleasantries, it pulled everyone's attention for the moment.

Kurt allowed himself to be fawned over some more before being ignored completely. He picked up his discarded fork and began making patterns with the tines in the spongy cake, his appetite gone in the wake of Blaine's unexpected arrival.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?" Blaine muttered just loud enough for Kurt to hear it.

Kurt's fork clattered against the plate.

"I don't think that's a good idea," he replied through gritted teeth.

Blaine ignored his protest, instead choosing to address Kurt's father, who was rising from his chair and straightening his jacket.

"Mr. Hummel, I thought I could take Kurt out for some fresh air — allow you the opportunity to enjoy your after dinner brandy."

Burt glanced to Kurt, as if he were gauging his son's response. Kurt offered a small nod and pursed his lips.

"I have been neglecting it," Burt said, laughing. "I wouldn't mind having a cigar either."

"I'll join you," Mr. Barrow said, oblivious to the mounting tension as he stood and offered his hand to his wife. "Emily, would you like me to escort you upstairs?"

"I just promised Bess I'd meet her in the parlor," she said, tilting her head to accept a kiss on the cheek from her husband. "You were sitting right here, dear."

"So I was," he laughed. "I can never keep up with your social calendar."

Kurt resisted the urge to roll his eyes or offer up a retort. He needed to save his energies for what was sure to be a difficult conversation with Blaine, who somehow looked even more dashing than usual, though he was wearing the same evening suit he always did.

As the group walked away, Kurt watched Blaine's lips curve up into a satisfied smile. "Alone at last," he said, leaning forward to help Kurt to his feet.

He hated being dependent on others to get around, but as he leaned on Blaine a little as they exited the dining room he could smell that mix of pomade and tobacco he'd come to associate with Blaine and it felt like home. Shaking off the desire to collapse into the man's arms, he allowed himself to be guided out into the hotel's main courtyard and into a pair of high-backed chairs that faced the fountain.

"I've been thinking about what you said earlier," Blaine said once they were seated and without waiting for Kurt to acknowledge him in any way.

Kurt raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, imploring Blaine to continue, unprepared or unsure if he wanted to speak.

"I'm going to ask Quinn to marry me."

Kurt's eyes went wide; he had known this would happen eventually, but he hadn't expected it so soon. Something about the entire situation felt off, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"I've spoken to her father, and as soon as I buy a ring, I can officially ask her. Of course, that's just a formality." The words tumbled out of Blaine in a rush, and he turned to face Kurt, looking like he was trying to gauge the man's reaction.

"I think that's a sensible decision," Kurt said, working to keep his expression neutral. "She's a wonderful young lady."

"Kurt, please…" he began, resting a hand on Kurt's forearm. "Don't be like this."

Kurt yanked his arm away and folded his hands in his lap, pulling at his fingers while thinking of what to say. He took a deep breath and forced out his words. "I'm happy for you."

Blaine sighed deeply and took out his cigarette case. He opened it and offered one to Kurt to Kurt as usual. Kurt shook his head and declined; the act itself felt far too intimate while he was trying to separate himself and his heart from Blaine.

After a long moment, Blaine lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. "We both know that's not true."

"What would you like me to say, Blaine?"

Blaine's gaze remained steady for a moment longer before letting Kurt's eyes go. "Nothing, I suppose," he sighed. "I just wanted you to know."

They were both silent for a few moments, the air around them thickening with humidity and emotion. The weight of it pressed down on Kurt's chest with every breath, and without thinking, he let out the very next idea that entered his brain. "Your grandfather will be pleased."

"Damn my grandfather!" The angry bellow exploded out of Blaine into the evening air and made Kurt jump. "This isn't about him."

"Then what…?" Kurt couldn't even finish his sentence. It felt like he couldn't get a deep enough breath, or maybe that was just the side effects of the fever. Dr. Smith had said he might not be back to full strength for a while.

"It's about us, Kurt… you and me." Kurt sucked in a breath that made his chest constrict tightly.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," he rasped out, even as Blaine's words began to sink in.

"You were right," Blaine said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He flicked ash from the glowing tip of his cigarette onto the concrete floor beneath them. "With me clinging to my bachelor status like a life preserver, everyone will keep talking, but if I am engaged to be married, and you as well, of course… Well, what can they say?"

"Plenty," Kurt said, tilting his head back and gazing into the globe of the electric light hanging over their heads. The glass orb was suspended between the wrought iron bars like a bauble caught in the claws of a fearsome beast. He almost laughed at the fanciful thought.

He lowered his head and turned to look at Blaine, who tilted his head to face Kurt, golden eyes boring into him even in the partial darkness. Something about his eyes still appeared hopeful and expectant, but Kurt didn't know how he could be either under the circumstances. Didn't he feel trapped? Kurt certainly did.

"When will you ask?" Kurt inquired.

"Right after my grandfather returns. I was hoping to travel to Atlanta to look for a ring."

Kurt deflated. As much as he insisted he and Blaine keep their distance, he was genuinely disappointed he wouldn't be seeing Blaine at dinner or around town for a few days.

"They probably have a better selection," Kurt said, sounding far more sensible and level-headed than he felt. "Larger city and all that…"

"I'd like you to go with me," Blaine said.

The offer punctured the tension between them like a balloon pricked with a pin. Kurt felt his jaw go slack. " _With_ you?"

"Yes," Blaine said, his lips curling into a seductive smile. "I thought it would do you some good after being cooped up in that hospital for so long."

"It wasn't even a week."

"It felt like an eternity."

Blaine's eyes were two pools of molten honey, sucking Kurt down and down even as he fought to stay afloat.

"Blaine, we can't…"

"I've worked it all out," Blaine said, standing up. He began to pace back and forth in front of Kurt as he talked excitedly. "We'll tell your father I'm taking you to see another doctor – just for a second opinion. No one will suspect anything."

Kurt felt his resolve crumbling even as he scrambled for reasons that he shouldn't go. "Your grandfather will be back soon. People will talk."

"Then we'll leave separately. Tell everyone I'm going somewhere else."

He seemed to have an answer for everything. Kurt wanted to laugh, to cry, but most of all to give in. "Why are you so desperate all of a sudden?"

"Because we're running out of time, Kurt." Blaine stopped in front of him and leaned against the low brick wall opposite Kurt. Seeing Blaine framed so picturesquely by the archway made Kurt wish he had a pencil and some paper with him so he could sketch the scene before him, remember it always.

"When you were sick, I realized how much I needed you in my life," Blaine continued, "but this little bubble we've built for ourselves is fragile. It won't last. We need to figure out a way to create more moments for ourselves… because the world won't offer them to us."

Kurt's heart warmed as Blaine spoke. He watched his lover's lips curl around the tip of his cigarette and Kurt's eyes followed a wisp of smoke as it wound its way between them, connecting them almost invisibly.

"You're a hopeless romantic," Kurt said.

"And you love that about me."

Blaine's smile was flirtatious and bright even in the darkness. Kurt couldn't resist returning it. Everything about Blaine had him wanting more, and that terrified him. Yet the thought of leaving it all behind for something as intangible as one's reputation, well, that seemed downright ridiculous.

"Will you let me pick out the ring?" Kurt asked.

Blaine's smile shone brighter than all the electric lights in the lobby combined.

"I wouldn't settle for anything less."


	10. Chapter 10

Blaine raised his hand to knock on the oversized oak door and paused, his closed fist hovering in midair as he hesitated. Once he knocked on that door, his fate would be sealed; there would be no turning back. Even the size and scope of the door matched the momentous feeling of what he was about to do, and it made Blaine feel very small and helpless. The weight of it pressed down on him as he tried to take an even breath.

Blaine had sought out Mr. Fabray at the bar before dinner the night before to make his intentions known, but it had been a spur-of-the-moment reaction to something Quinn had said, and now they had to iron out the details of the arrangement. Blaine might have been to blame for moving things forward, but he was slowly realizing that his life was spiraling rapidly out of his control.

On this side of the door, he was a bachelor, but once he crossed the threshold, his life would forever change after he became betrothed to Russell Fabray's youngest daughter.

He closed his eyes and tried to recall Quinn's exact words.

"Your friend Mr. Hummel is such a wonderful gentleman," she'd said when he had escorted her back from the cakewalk to hotel lobby that afternoon.

If Quinn could accept Kurt in his life, he'd be an idiot not to marry her.

He clenched and unclenched his fist a couple of times and rolled his head until he heard the bones in his neck pop and felt his shoulders relax. He inhaled deeply and released his breath in a long, slow exhale as his knuckles made contact with the door in three sharp raps.

When the door swung open, Blaine cleared his throat and looked Mr. Fabray square in the eye. "Good afternoon," he said as the gentleman stepped aside to allow him to enter the sitting room of suite 44.

The first-floor suites of the Ponce were the most luxurious, and even the doors themselves were more elaborate than the others, but to see the sharp contrast from the suite Kurt and his father shared was striking. The fireplace was similar but the furnishings were far more lavish, the curtains hung with a heavy fringe and the chairs a thicker padding. Even though the room itself was quite a bit larger than the Hummels' sitting room, it didn't feel that way, and the air, while not as stifling as the fourth floor, was thick with tension.

Blaine cleared his throat again and waited for a cue from Mr. Fabray as to how they should proceed, but the older man appeared to be taking a mental tally of Blaine's shortcomings as he looked Blaine up and down, his blue eyes narrowed and piercing.

"Can I offer you a drink, Blaine?" he asked finally, as he walked over to a small cart with several crystal decanters and a few matching glasses.

"I'll take a whiskey," Blaine said, hoping it wasn't too forward of him to be imbibing while they discussed matters. But the thought of doing this without any form of drink in him seemed absurd, his frayed nerves being what they were already.

Mr. Fabray raised an eyebrow, but did not comment on his choice. He poured their drinks, choosing a brandy for himself, and crossed the room to hand Blaine his glass.

"I was shocked that you asked me for my daughter's hand in such an unorthodox manner," Mr. Fabray said, sitting down in the larger of the two chairs, forcing Blaine to take the smaller lady's chair opposite him. "Not exactly the way a gentleman typically handles such affairs.

"My apologies, sir," Blaine said, unbuttoning his jacket and setting his glass on the table beside him as he took his seat. "I was overcome with affection for Miss Fabray and was perhaps a bit eager."

His words, although forced and trite, seemed to have a calming affect on his host, who chuckled quietly and smiled at Blaine. "I suppose that can be overlooked, considering the circumstances," Mr. Fabray said. "This is a favorable match for both our families."

Blaine was once again reminded that his marriage was largely a business deal, both families hoping to maintain their status by creating a union between their children. The Andersons would benefit from the Fabrays' amassed wealth, and the Fabrays would benefit from the Anderson name and established reputation.

"So you wanted to discuss the details of our arrangement?" Blaine prompted. His voice wavered slightly as he spoke, so Blaine picked up his glass and took a small sip, never taking his eyes from Quinn's father. He couldn't afford to seem weak or insincere now. Mr. Fabray had been keen to control the situation from the moment Blaine made the faux pas of approaching him in the bar, first insisting that they meet in the Fabrays' suite rather than at Markland, and then by rearranging the time twice, just to prove he could.

"I'd like my Lucy to have a spring wedding," he said, once again directing the conversation away from Blaine's jurisdiction. "So the wedding will be next year… May, perhaps?"

"If that's what she wants, of course."

Russell Fabray arched an eyebrow at him, making his admonishment clear. If Blaine wanted to marry Quinn, he'd have to play along.

"Of course, if you want a May wedding, I'm sure Miss Fabray will feel the same, and it will give her plenty of time to find a dress."

Blaine wondered if this was a prelude of what his life was to become, acquiescing to the wishes of not only _his_ parents, but now Quinn's as well.

"When should we make the announcement?" Blaine asked, hoping he would get the chance to tell Kurt before word got around.

"As soon as possible, I think; we don't want anyone assuming my little girl has been doing anything inappropriate."

Mr. Fabray laughed then, a stark mockery of the situation, which was anything but comical to Blaine. Even though he knew it was inevitable that he marry, he'd hoped it would mean more freedom, not less. Although, after they were legally wed, he and Quinn would no longer be bound to either family; they would be expected to start their own.

The idea of having children had never occurred to him except on an abstract level. He would have to bed Quinn and impregnate her, not something he was looking forward to for so many reasons.

"I'll wire my grandfather yet today," Blaine said. "I'm sure he'll want to plan something… and my mother as well. She'll want to host a ball or some such nonsense when we return to New York."

"We'll see that it gets in the papers and I'll talk to your father about any necessary financial arrangements."

Blaine nodded as the two men shook hands. It was all very perfunctory and businesslike, and it left a bad taste in Blaine's mouth, a bitter remnant of heartache and dishonesty.

"As soon as I purchase a ring, I'll ask her in person," Blaine said. "If you don't mind, I'd prefer if you didn't tell her. I'd like to surprise her."

Mr. Fabray beamed. "Of course," he said. She'd love that."

For once Blaine had said the right thing, a small grace in a bleak endeavor.

"Then it's all settled," he said, hoping the bitter tone didn't read in his voice.

"To new family," Mr. Fabray said, raising his glass in a toast.

Blaine raised his whiskey in return before swallowing it down and allowing the sting of the alcohol numb his aching heart.

* * *

The sunlight streaming in through the solarium's floor-to-ceiling windows warmed Blaine's body to its core, soothing his worry and taking his sullen mood with it. Blaine had wanted to meet Mr. Hummel somewhere open and airy, and it looked like everyone seemed to have a similar idea; there were dozens of people milling about, playing cards, reading, or just engaging in idle chatter. It was a scene that could have been any moment in his life, part of the infinite loop of his days, except for one small difference: Kurt.

The man's presence loomed large even when he was absent, and everything Blaine said and did was only because it would bring him closer to his precious time alone with his lover.

After his conversation with Mr. Fabray, Blaine couldn't wait to get out of St. Augustine for a few days. His time with Kurt since the cakewalk had been limited, to say the least, and he had been thirsting for a moment alone like a man walking through a desert thirsts for water. A trip to Atlanta was the perfect escape for them – time to simply bask in each other's presence and celebrate the fact that Kurt was still alive.

But Blaine wanted Burt's approval before taking Kurt on such a long journey. For some inexplicable reason, that seemed important.

Blaine let his eyes rove the room, searching out an older, more labor-worn version of Kurt. He skipped over several faces before his gaze landed on Burt Hummel, reclining in a high-backed wicker chair, a thick cigar resting comfortably between his fingers as he read the morning paper through a pair of round, wire-rimmed spectacles. It was easy to see where Kurt got his quiet confidence from; his father had a similar effortless air to him, even in repose.

"Good morning, Mr. Hummel," Blaine greeted as he approached, gripping his hands behind his back as he bowed politely.

"Ah, Blaine," he said, looking up over the edge of his glasses and folding his paper. He stood up and extended a hand in greeting. "Good to see you again."

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, especially on such short notice."

The contrast between meeting with Burt Hummel and meeting with Russell Fabray was the difference between conducting an orchestra and dancing like a marionette, and yet Blaine was more nervous when faced with the uncertainty of Burt's quiet symphony than he ever was of the disruptive jerking of Mr. Fabray's puppeteering. having his every move predetermined.

"Think nothing of it," Burt replied. "Have a seat." He gestured to the chair next to him and removed his glasses, his warm smile giving way to a genuine curiosity. "So your note said you wanted to talk about Kurt?"

As Blaine adjusted his waistcoat and took his seat, he pulled his cigarette case from his pocket, using the act of placing the hand-rolled tobacco between his lips to delay the requirement to speak. When he couldn't immediately find his matches, though, his hands began to tremble slightly. This was it; if he failed to win Kurt's father over, their trip was over before it even began.

"Here, use mine," Burt said, holding up a small silver case.

It took Blaine a moment to realize Burt meant the matches, and when he finally reached out to take the matchsafe, he saw it was a more basic design than his own, decorated with a simple filigree pattern and a blatant advertisement for a shop in Brooklyn. Despite its basic hinged closure, Blaine fumbled getting it open, the sound of the matches rattling around mimicking the feeling of butterflies in his stomach. When he finally managed to open it, he said, "I've been concerned about Kurt's recovery."

Blaine took a match from the case and closed it, turning the smooth metal over in his hand to strike the flint against the edge of it. He glanced up to see Burt's reaction to his comment, but there was none. So Blaine lifted the lit match to the tip of his cigarette and inhaled, the thick, cloying scent of the tobacco reaching his nose the same time the sharp flavor flooded his mouth.

When he had his cigarette lit, he passed the matchsafe back to Burt.

"I was hoping he could see a specialist I know in Atlanta," Blaine said.

Burt pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows, the expression urging Blaine to keep speaking but also reminding him of how careful he had to be with how he approached this situation.

"You know Kurt better than I do, Mr. Hummel, but I'm afraid he might be exaggerating his recovery because he doesn't want to worry you."

A thick puff of smoke escaped Burt's lips as he leaned forward slightly in response to Blaine's words.

"I have been wondering that myself," he said, tipping the ash from his cigar into a shallow brass bowl on the stand to his right. "Has he said anything to you?"

"Well, Kurt doesn't like to seem weak or helpless…" Blaine said, trailing off.

Burt's smile was a brief flash of fondness, but its warmth was unmistakable. "You seem to know my son better than you think," he said.

Blaine twirled his cigarette between his fingers, tipping it back and studying the brightly burning tip. "I know he's been having dizzy spells, and I'd like to help if I can."

"But this doctor you want him to see," Burt said, looking uncertain. "He's in Atlanta?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you think he can help him?"

"I think it's the best shot he has at a full recovery."

"That has to be expensive."

"Already covered, sir. I had a feeling it might be something you couldn't afford ordinarily, so I'd be willing to fund the entire trip."

Burt's nostrils flared sharply as he squared his shoulders in Blaine's direction.

"That's quite presumptuous of you, young man."

"Forgive me if I'm overstepping," Blaine said. "I just want what's best for Kurt. Certainly we can agree on that."

"I _do_ want what's best for my son. I just don't think it's wise for him to travel all the way to Atlanta _by himself_ when he's only just recovered from the fever."

"Oh, he won't be alone," Blaine said. "I'd planned on going with him."

"Certainly you have better things to do."

"Well, it's not entirely selfless," Blaine said with a chuckle. He leaned in and whispered, "I need to purchase an engagement ring… for Miss Fabray."

"Well, that's excellent news," Burt exclaimed, clenching his cigar in his teeth as he clapped Blaine on the shoulder. "Have you spoken to her father yet?"

If he tried, he could almost imagine having this conversation under different circumstances, where he was asking Burt for Kurt's hand. Blaine smiled at the thought before returning his attentions to the conversation at hand.

"Yes, but I'm waiting until I have the ring to ask her properly. I know it's ridiculous, but I feel like I should have something to offer in exchange for her agreeing to spend her life with _me_."

"I can't see any woman turning _that_ down," Burt said with a laugh.

Blaine shrugged and looked down at the remnants of his cigarette in his hand. "It's a smart match for our families, but I do hope to make it as romantic for her as possible."

"I'm sure she'll love it."

Blaine nodded and paused before glancing up at Burt, trying to gauge his mood. "So you'll allow me to take Kurt to Atlanta?" he urged. When Burt looked uncertain, he added, "To see Dr. Abbott, that is."

"I need a couple days to think about it," Burt said. "Kurt's not strong enough for travel right now anyway."

"Of course," Blaine said, stubbing out his cigarette. He blew a thick plume of smoke away from them both and rose. Burt stood up as well, and held out his right hand.

"Thank you for the offer," he said. "It's most generous of you."

Blaine clasped the man's hand firmly and smiled. "I meant every word," he said. "I just want what's best for Kurt."

Burt nodded once and released Blaine's hand. It wasn't perfect, but he had a feeling Mr. Hummel would take him up on the offer.

* * *

Blaine returned to Markland to find a letter from his mother waiting.

_Dearest Blaine,_

_Mrs. Fabray has written me regarding your intentions with Miss Lucy, and I have to say I am so happy to hear you've found her to be worthy of your attentions and look forward to meeting her properly when you return home. Your father sends his regards and says he will discuss the particulars with Mr. Fabray as soon as possible._

_If you plan on purchasing her a ring as an engagement present, please consider a woman's perspective and that you'll want to buy her something that will be in fashion twenty years from now. I trust you have the funds you need for such a purchase or can work that out with your grandfather._

_I cannot tell you how absolutely delighted we are to have a wedding to plan for you… finally. Count me amongst the happiest mothers in all of New York._

_You must keep in mind, however, that there is still a proper way to do this. One cannot forget to be a gentleman in such instances, and I trust you will be chaperoned any time you are in Miss Fabray's company, even after you finalize your engagement. Remember, you are an Anderson. Make me proud, my son._

_Your loving Mother_

Blaine sighed at the almost perfunctory way his mother was addressing his predicament. She cared not for his feelings on the matter, merely that he followed etiquette and did the "proper" thing. For his part, Blaine no longer cared whether he made his family proud, but he could keep up appearances to protect their reputations, and if that made them proud in the process, so much the better.

Looking back down at the table, he noticed he also had a reply to the wire he had sent his grandfather announcing his pending engagement and subsequent trip to Atlanta. The response was predictable and direct.

_Glad you came to your senses. I expect you back in St. Augustine for our return reception._

At least he hadn't forbade him to go.

* * *

When Burt conceded the next day, Blaine booked their train tickets immediately, and made plans to call on Quinn right away. Her mother suggested they take a picnic to the bayfront and enjoy the nice weather while they still could.

He would be glad when their chaperoned outings would come to an end, no longer having the patience for the collective dictates of high society. He tried not to think about the fact that he would never escape such obligations. For now the light at the end of the dark tunnel was Atlanta and Kurt.

"Do you suppose this weather will last?" Quinn asked.

She was sitting next to Blaine on a simple blanket, back straight as a pin, her legs neatly folded to the side as she held her lace parasol over her head in a tiny gloved hand. Quinn made the picture of ladylike perfection; even her own mother couldn't compare in all her finery.

"The almanac says the rainy season is coming soon," Blaine offered.

The conversation was mechanical at best, the young couple unable to speak of anything of any real substance while they were still courting. Mrs. Fabray was serving as chaperone, protecting her daughter's honor from any untoward advances from Blaine.

It was laughable.

The irony of it all, of course, was that Blaine could more easily spend time alone with Kurt; even though there were suspicions, it was still more proper for him to be alone with a man than a woman. All the pretense and posturing he was doing to win Quinn's favor was just that, and he couldn't wait for the opportunity to just bask in the simplicity of Kurt's presence. In Atlanta they would be free to go on outings together and spend their evenings alone. It was exquisite torture picnicking with Quinn and Mrs. Fabray knowing that in just under 24 hours, he would be alone with Kurt for five whole days.

"Why don't you read aloud from the book of poetry Lucy brought along?" Mrs. Fabray prompted.

"Oh, Mother, Blaine doesn't want to read a silly book of poems when–"

"Nonsense," Mrs. Fabray interjected. "He's a writer." She turned to Blaine, her parasol casting a sinister shadow across her pale face. "You don't mind, do you?"

"No, of course not," Blaine said with a forced smile. "What book did you bring, Miss Fabray?"

Quinn reached inside the picnic basket she and her mother had packed for their outing and pulled out a small volume: _Poems: Second Series by Emily Dickinson_.

"I know it's just poetry by a woman…" Quinn began.

"Nonsense," Blaine interjected, taking the book from her hands. "It's perfectly fine."

Quinn beamed at him, even as she tried to tug her lips back to a more demure smile. When their hands brushed over the spine of the book, Quinn's mother scowled at her from behind a fan, silently scolding her daughter for her unladylike behavior. Quinn's eyes darkened, and as Blaine watched, she dipped her head to hide her embarrassment. Clearing his throat to pull the attention back to himself, Blaine opened to the first page and began to read aloud.

The first poem was innocuous, a brief ode to loneliness and simplicity, a lighthearted twist on a melancholy idea, but when he got to the second poem and spoke its words, his heart began to flutter wildly in his chest. Or perhaps it had stopped altogether, because his body no longer felt as if it were his own.

As he read the words, he could feel Quinn's eyes on him, her gaze giving off the warmth of a low-burning candle, but he read on, his voice high and breaking, his mind an infinite sea of blue and green and wonder as he chased the warmth of something deeper.

_I bring an unaccustomed wine_   
_To lips long parching, next to mine,_   
_And summon them to drink._

_Crackling with fever, they essay;_   
_I turn my brimming eyes away,_   
_And come next hour to look._

_The hands still hug the tardy glass;_   
_The lips I would have cooled, alas!_   
_Are so superfluous cold,_

_I would as soon attempt to warm_   
_The bosoms where the frost has lain_   
_Ages beneath the mould._

_Some other thirsty there may be_   
_To whom this would have pointed me_   
_Had it remained to speak._

_And so I always bear the cup_   
_If, haply, mine may be the drop_   
_Some pilgrim thirst to slake —_

_If, haply, any say to me,_   
_"Unto the little, unto me,"_   
_When I at last awake._

When Blaine finished the final stanza, he looked up, his eyes brimming with silent tears. Mrs. Fabray's knowing smile was just visible in his peripheral vision, and in that moment he knew every emotion in his heart was written plainly for them both to see, and he couldn't bear the intrusion on such a private moment.

As if on instinct, he reached up to adjust his collar, unable to avoid the feeling that it was gripping him in a chokehold. Clearing his throat, he blinked his eyes several times to keep the tears from spilling, hoping the ladies assumed his sudden display of sentiment was because of Quinn's presence and not thanks to him being some sort of emotional wreck.

When his eyes settled on Quinn, he could see that her face was frozen in disbelief, her green eyes speaking volumes about how the recitation had made her feel, and he wondered if he shouldn't just go ahead and propose marriage to the girl on the spot, end the suspense for her and, if he was being truly honest, deflect the attention from the widening chasm in his chest that only Kurt could fill.

Blaine opened his mouth to speak, but both propriety and his own careful plans stopped him from asking for her hand. Instead he changed course and asked, "Would you like me to read another poem?"

Quinn nodded, her lips turning up into a delighted smile.

"You have a knack for reciting poetry," she said softly, her eyelashes fluttering as she cast her gaze downward. Her gloved hands trembled slightly where they rested in her lap and Blaine suddenly felt a pang of guilt at keeping this poor girl on tenterhooks.

But surely she knew of his intentions, and Blaine wanted to do it right. Besides, if he proposed without the ring, he'd have no excuse to journey to Atlanta, and his week with Kurt would be lost. No, he would stick to his plan and wait to ask Quinn properly once he had a bauble to represent his commitment, however false it might be.

He gripped the book tighter in his hands and began to read the next poem, but it was as if he were caught in a dream, his nightmare on an infinite loop as the words cut through him like a freshly sharpened blade severs flesh from bone.

_The nearest dream recedes, unrealized._   
_The heaven we chase_   
_Like the June bee_   
_Before the school-by_   
_Invites the race;_   
_Stoops to an easy clover ––_   
_Dips –– evades –– teases –– deploys;_   
_Then to the royal clouds_   
_Lifts his light pinnace_   
_Heedless of the boy_   
_Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky_   
_Homesick for steadfast honey,_   
_Ah! the bees fly not_   
_That brews that rare variety._

His breath caught in his throat, words no longer able to form on his dried lips and parched tongue. His face felt flushed and droplets of sweat were racing a trail down his spine.

"Mr. Anderson, are you feeling all right?" Mrs. Fabray enquired, her fan's pace accelerating as if in sympathy.

Squinting against the sun, Blaine wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. "I think I'm just a tad light headed perhaps."

"You've gotten too much sun," Mrs. Fabray said, nodding as if to agree with her own words.

"That must be it," Blaine lied. To drive the point home took off his hat and fanned himself with it. Then again, maybe it was sheer exhaustion from always pretending to be something he wasn't. The weight of it suddenly felt too heavy a load to carry and he was desperate to escape.

"Do you suppose we could finish this another time?" he asked, his eyes fixed on Quinn's pained expression.

"Of course, dear boy," Mrs. Fabray answered for them both.

"Miss Fabray, please forgive me," Blaine implored.

"It's just that you're going away tomorrow–"

"Lucy dear, now don't make Mr. Anderson feel guilty. He has important business matters to attend to."

Blaine could sense Quinn was fighting back a retort, and he found himself empathizing with her. "Oh, think nothing of it," he said, risking the chance to reassure her by placing his hand over hers.

Mrs. Fabray's sharp intake of breath almost had him pulling back, but Quinn's pale green eyes held him firm. He tried to convey his intent in his eyes — to allay her fears somehow — but he was uncertain if he was successful.

"I hope you have a pleasant trip, Mr. Anderson," she said, withdrawing her own hand and fussing with a piece of lace on her dress. "And I hope you feel better."

A twinge of remorse shuddered through him as he smiled at her, but he said nothing more as he rose to standing and bowed to the ladies.

It wasn't until later that afternoon, when he was back at Markland and instructing Jenkins on the last few items to pack for his trip, that he realized he still had the volume of poetry gripped tightly in his hand.

* * *

Atlanta was colder than St. Augustine, but much more buoyant and lively. From the moment they stepped off the train, Blaine felt a keen anticipation for the days to come with Kurt.

He was elated; there was no other way to describe it. Blaine would have the opportunity to spend untold amounts of time with his lover and without the prying eyes of the small town. It was perfect — or at least as close to perfect as they could get under the circumstances.

Blaine found a hotel in a quiet area and booked a suite of rooms for the duration of their trip, letting the hotel staff know his _brother_ Kurt would be staying with him while he convalesced. Kurt still got weak quite easily and needed help with getting around sometimes, so what he told the desk clerk wasn't a total lie, but it was also an exquisite excuse to have Kurt lean on him as they climbed the stairs to their suite.

"Blaine, I'm perfectly capable of walking up a flight of stairs," Kurt said as Blaine put an arm around him.

"Three."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's three flights. Our room is on the third floor."

"Wouldn't that be two flights?" Kurt asked.

"Details," Blaine said, waving a dismissive hand. He leaned in close to Kurt's ear and whispered, "Besides, it's an excuse to have you on my arm like you've always wanted."

Kurt smiled, and swatted him away, but the pink of his cheeks belied his true feelings.

"We're going to be sharing a room for six days," he whispered. "I think you can control yourself until we're behind closed doors."

"You say that as if I can ever control myself when I'm in your company," Blaine said. Kurt looked positively dumbstruck, but Blaine continued pulling them along the hallway until they found the correct door. "Ah, here we are."

He unlocked the door to their suite — it was similar in size and layout to Kurt's suite at the Ponce, but far less opulent, and yet it was the most wonderful sight Blaine had ever laid his eyes on, because it was theirs.

Blaine glanced over at Kurt and could see the excitement on his features as well. Blaine realized what a fool he'd been, taking all of his privilege for granted when Kurt was aching for it. He was determined to share his status with Kurt in any way that he could; he wanted to show this young man all the wonderful decadence the world had to offer. He wondered briefly if Kurt might be equally interested in the things he so desperately desired, things he didn't dare vocalize and yet couldn't help but want.

And when Kurt turned to face him, Blaine leaned forward to kiss his full, pink lips –– long and slow and deep –– hoping to shove all their worries aside for just one moment so they could enjoy the simple fact of each other's company.

When they pulled apart, Kurt's eyes were dark and wanting as he whispered, "Let's go to the bedroom."

* * *

Spreading Kurt out beneath him on the bed, Blaine practically pawed at his clothing.

"You're going to tear my waistcoat," Kurt said just as one of the buttons came loose of its threads, falling to the floor with a clatter that seemed to echo through the room.

"I'll buy you a new one."

Blaine tugged at the thick tweed without regard for its care, desperate to get to Kurt's skin as quickly as possible.

"You can't just buy your way into my heart, Mr. Anderson," Kurt teased, his irises nearly obscured by his widened pupils.

"I hadn't planned on it," Blaine said, unbuttoning Kurt's shirt and caressing his bare skin. "I have other ways of seducing you."

Kurt gasped as Blaine's mouth made contact with his sternum, the sound a delicious reward for his efforts. He worked quickly to divest both of them of their remaining clothing, taking care not to damage any more of Kurt's wardrobe in the process. After he'd neatly laid their their garments across a chair in the corner of the room, Blaine turned back to the bed to find Kurt propped against the headboard, his long, pale legs sprawled out in front of him, looking the very picture of seduction.

His sly smirk caused Blaine's skin to prickle in anticipation as he settled on his hands and knees and crawled up the bed to hover above him for a moment before settling his body over Kurt's, letting the warmth of their combined bare skin radiate through him.

Kurt arched his back and inclined his head, inviting Blaine in for a kiss that he was all too ready to give. Blaine darted his tongue out to part Kurt's lips, feeling them both grow hard as they explored each other's mouths. Blaine felt a hand in his hair and he moaned when Kurt tugged at it, forcing his head to tilt back and exposing his neck. Kurt wasted no time, attacking his neck with a passionate ferocity that Blaine himself could understand. It felt like an eternity since they were last in each other's arms like this.

"I want to try something," Blaine breathed. "Will you trust me?"

Kurt bit his lip, his chest heaving and flushed. "Yes," he said finally.

Blaine flipped Kurt over onto his side, pressing his body up against Kurt's back from shoulder to knee. His hardening cock brushed against Kurt's inner thigh, drawing a gasp from him as he began to tremble slightly.

"I promise I won't penetrate you," Blaine said, running a hand along Kurt's perfectly rounded backside as he wound his other arm underneath him and wrapped it around Kurt's chest, hugging him in close. As always, Kurt's presence seemed to anchor him to reality, keeping him from floating away on the soaring feeling that was rising up inside of him.

"I trust you," Kurt said.

"Lift your leg for me," Blaine requested, placing his hand between Kurt's legs and nudging his right one up ever so slightly.

Kurt complied, allowing Blaine the space he needed to settle his cock between Kurt's thighs. The warmth of Kurt's skin engulfed him, increasing his arousal as he felt himself grow even harder.

Blaine reached around Kurt's torso, dragging his palm from hip to abdomen, and coming to rest just below Kurt's navel. "This might be a little rough," he said. "It works a bit better with Vaseline, but I've done it before without. Just tell me if it's too much."

Kurt nodded sharply, as if he were hovering on the edge of the same keen anticipation Blaine was feeling. Blaine kissed the back of Kurt's neck, hoping to soothe him a little. He felt Kurt's body shiver at the contact and saw his lips part in a silent gasp.

"That feels good," Kurt said. His voice was breathy and thin. It was positively delicious.

"Oh, I can do better than that," Blaine replied. It wasn't even a challenge, not really, but something in Blaine began burning red hot, and he was struck with the urge to give Kurt every pleasure he could manage in the five days that they had together.

Lowering his hand, Blaine easily found that Kurt was quite aroused as well, his cock now fully hard and curving upward toward his body. As Blaine's hand closed around Kurt's length, he felt them both exhale at the same time. Knowing they were synchronized in such a way gave him renewed purpose, his body curving to meet Kurt's over every inch of them.

"How is it that every time you touch me it feels better than the last?" Kurt's words stuttered out of him between clipped breaths, a staccato refrain of exquisite music that seemed to echo between them.

Blaine tightened his grip on Kurt's cock, and started stroking him in time with the movement of his hips. He went slowly at first, the drag along his own length a familiar sensation, even though this was something they'd never done together before, but the more vocal Kurt became, the less Blaine could restrain himself, and he began thrusting between Kurt's thighs with abandon. Something carnal had taken hold of him and was pressing him onward; he grunted and moaned, Kurt's breaths coming faster as Blaine rocked them together.

"Are you close?" he breathed out. He could just make out Kurt's profile and Blaine saw him lick his lips and attempt to answer, but all he could seem to manage was a high-pitched gasp.

Blaine didn't know if he could hold out much longer; apparently being without Kurt's body to sate him for nearly a week had been too much. He was chasing his release with a passion he didn't know he possessed.

"Kurt, I–"

Whatever he had intended to say, the words died on his tongue as every cell in his body seemed suddenly aflame with need. He pulled Kurt closer to him, kissing every spot on his bare back that Blaine could reach without altering their position. He was so close, but he needed Kurt with him, wanted it like nothing he'd ever known. The only sounds in the room were their elevated breathing and a faint creaking of the bedsprings as Blaine focused on holding out for Kurt's sake. He could feel sweat at his temples and over every inch of his body where it was pressed tightly against Kurt's.

The moments seemed to drag on into eternity, and yet Blaine couldn't help feeling it would be over all too soon. His only consolation was that they had five days to do this as often as they wanted.

When Kurt finally broke the silence with a startled, "Oh," the sound of his voice sent a shiver down Blaine's spine that forced him to fight even harder to keep his climax at bay. As another wave of pleasure crested over him, he bit down on Kurt's shoulder to keep from shouting, but the resulting moan that escaped Kurt's lips was exquisitely erotic, and it pushed Blaine over the edge just as he felt Kurt pulsing in his hand, his body going rigid against him.

Neither of them moved or spoke for a few blissful moments and Blaine realized he'd rarely had an opportunity like this, to simply revel in closeness after sex and savor the feeling of his lover's heartbeat against his own chest, the feel of the cool sheets around his ankles, or even the sweet sound of rapid breathing as it began to slow toward sleep.

Just knowing they had the indulgence of time for once allowed Blaine to relax fully as he nuzzled Kurt's neck and hummed a melody into his skin.

"You know, I'd forgotten that not every luxury is a material one," Blaine said when he felt himself hovering just on the edge of sleep. "Thank you for reminding me."

"I've been trying to tell you there's more to me than just my dashing good looks," Kurt teased with a yawn.

Blaine pulled Kurt closer to him, not even caring about the mess between them, and whispered, "So much more, my love. So much more."


	11. Chapter 11

Kurt had been reluctant to continue his relationship with Blaine, every breath in the man's presence an acute reminder that what they had was fleeting and precarious, to say the least. But lying in bed together, hundreds of miles from anyone they knew with Blaine's head resting on his chest as he made lazy patterns along Kurt's arm and hummed quietly, it felt like the moment would never end.

"How did you learn to do that?" Kurt asked.

"What?"

"That thing with your tongue?"

"Do you really want to know?" Blaine asked.

"No," Kurt said with a laugh. "I suppose not."

He ran his fingers through Blaine's hair, now a loose pile of curls without the weight of pomade to smooth it into submission. He watched the dark ringlets wind around his fingers as he twisted in tiny circles.

"So what would you like to do today?" Blaine asked, his words whispered into the skin of Kurt's torso like a prayer. It tickled a little, but Kurt didn't recoil from it even a little. He welcomed the sensation and treasured it for he knew it would not last.

"Everything," Kurt said, feeling like it didn't matter as long as it was with Blaine. "Nothing. Anything."

"That's a long list."

"Well, then," Kurt said, tilting his head down to catch Blaine's eye when he looked up, "what did _you_ want to do?"

"Doesn't matter," Blaine said. His voice was sure and deep.

"And why is that?"

"Because I'm with you." Blaine pointed a finger at him and grazed the tip of Kurt's nose with it, a feather-light touch that made Kurt shiver with its intimacy.

"Ah yes, but you have to buy an engagement ring," Kurt said. Practicality wasn't really his best quality, but for some reason it felt necessary to remind them both of the situation at hand.

Blaine's lip twitched ever so slightly at Kurt's words, the only sign he was affected by it at all.

"Yes, but I still have four days," he said. "So what do you propose we do with them?"

Blaine nipped at Kurt's side, just hard enough to make Kurt jump, but not hard enough to leave a mark. Kurt's head dropped to the pillow as he arched into Blaine's touch, his eyes drifting closed. He let himself get lost in the sensation of Blaine's mouth on his skin, leaving a trail of reverent kisses that promised to lead to something more.

Suddenly Blaine's movements stopped and Kurt tilted his head down to find Blaine looking up at him, his chin resting on the arm he had draped across Kurt's midsection. His golden eyes were filled with admiration and desire.

Sighing contentedly, Kurt reached up to stroke Blaine's cheek, the roughness of his five o'clock shadow coarse and prickly beneath his fingers, a stark contrast to everything that Blaine was.

"We will have to get out of this bed at some point," Kurt said.

"Perhaps, but you are recovering from an illness, Mr. Hummel, and I would hate for you to have a relapse."

"Then perhaps we shouldn't exert ourselves," Kurt teased as he pushed Blaine away.

"Or you could just lie there, and let me do all the work."

Blaine's voice rang out seductive and deep, twisting something hot and urgent in Kurt's belly. He couldn't believe the desires Blaine had awakened in him; it was as if he'd never truly been alive until Blaine held him in his arms. Every touch was like flipping the switch on a dozen electric bulbs, every lingering caress the smooth feel of a velvet waistcoat, every longing gaze the sweetest ballad ever sung. But this — Blaine looking at him like he wished to devour him body and soul — well, this was something altogether different, and it blazed hotter than the sun on the warmest summer day.

Kurt raised an eyebrow, feeling emboldened by Blaine's searing gaze. "Do tell," he said, sounding far more breathless than he would have liked.

"Well, to begin with," Blaine began as he lowered himself over Kurt's body, "I'd kiss you here." He pressed his lips to the crease where Kurt's leg met his hip, causing him to moan softly.

"And then?" Kurt gasped.

"Well…" Blaine began.

But he didn't finish, choosing instead to roll away from Kurt, leaving him gaping like a fish in confusion.

"No, you're right," Blaine said with a smirk. "We should get out of this room. It's so stuffy."

He glanced over his shoulder as he climbed out of bed, winking at Kurt and expertly dodging the pillow Kurt lobbed at him in response.

* * *

They circled around each other as they dressed to leave the hotel, their morning rituals already a practiced routine that Kurt knew he would always remember with fondness. Somehow the memory of Blaine helping him with his cufflinks or the way Blaine's pomade smelled when he first applied it in the morning, those were the things Kurt knew he'd never forget.

He sat on the edge of the bed and watched Blaine shave with careful precision, his own hands itching to touch the skin of Blaine's neck, decorate it with kisses and feel the scratch of stubble against his own cheek.

When Blaine was finished, he wiped his face and put on his tie and jacket, and Kurt immediately hopped from the bed to assist him, knowing Blaine didn't need it, but unable to resist another opportunity to touch him before they were relegated to stolen furtive glances for the rest of the day.

"I'm going to make this quick," Blaine said, "and I can treat you to lunch afterwards."

"Don't rush on my account," Kurt said, smoothing out Blaine's lapels and straightening his tie before brushing off his shoulders. For a simple gesture, it was a shockingly intimate moment between the two of them as they locked eyes. Kurt could feel himself being pulled in as he always was by Blaine's liquid gaze, and had to shake his head to clear it of his wicked thoughts. "I can browse the other shops while you decide."

"I thought you wanted to pick out the ring."

"You're serious?" Kurt asked, incredulous. "That won't look suspicious?"

"No more so than usual," Blaine replied with a shrug. "And besides, it would mean a lot to me if you were there."

He encircled Kurt in his arms, pressing their foreheads together as if he were savoring the final moments as well. He inhaled deeply and placed a lingering kiss to Kurt's lips. It was chaste, but as nearly all of Blaine's kisses did, it only served to leave him wanting more.

"Come on," Blaine said finally. "We should get going."

Reluctantly, Kurt agreed, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair where he had left it the night before, and following Blaine to the hotel's lobby.

* * *

As much as Kurt never wanted to leave their bed, he had to admit he was enjoying Atlanta.

Strolling down the streets next to Blaine, it was easy to forget all that lay behind them in St. Augustine, and the looming specter of New York in two months' time.

"You always look so deep in thought," Blaine said, daring to brush his fingers against Kurt's wrist as they walked. Kurt resisted leaning into his touch, but only just barely.

"I was thinking about how much I'm enjoying this trip," Kurt said.

"Even though we've barely left our room?" Blaine whispered. "Or is it _because_ of that?"

"Well, someone's impressed with himself," Kurt replied, even as he felt his face flushing.

Blaine wasn't looking at Kurt, his gaze resolutely toward the sidewalk in front of him, but Kurt could see that he was grinning broadly.

"I hope I've impressed you a little," Blaine said, his grin giving way to a slight vulnerability.

Kurt was thoughtful for a moment before replying, "I think it's safe to say you've exceeded my expectations."

Blaine's grin returned as he adjusted his top hat and said, "And you, mine."

Kurt pressed his lips together to contain the smile Blaine's words had drawn from him. It seemed every word that fell from Blaine's lips made Kurt fall more in love with the man, shoving thoughts of his impending marriage to Rachel further and further from his mind.

Even so, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd be able to go through with it, knowing now what real love was. Could he bind his best friend to a life that was only half full? Could he strive to make her happy while his own heart was breaking?

"I should probably buy something for Rachel," he blurted suddenly.

Blaine turned his head sharply, obviously surprised by Kurt's seemingly incongruous thought. But he recovered quickly, asking, "What did you have in mind?"

Kurt shrugged, shoving his hands deep in his trouser pockets. "I don't know. I just thought I should get her something."

"I think it's a lovely gesture," Blaine said, his stiff shoulders betraying his casual tone.

Kurt remained silent for the next three blocks, trying not to think of Rachel or the guilt that swelled up and crashed over him like a wave of regret and shame every time he did. It wasn't as if he could help that he had fallen in love with Blaine. But neither was it Blaine's fault he had promised to marry Rachel.

Kicking at a stray pebble on the sidewalk, he watched the dust billow up and settle with each step. He felt like that pebble. Every one of his actions kicked up dust and sullied everything around him. There was no denying how easily it could all crumble, and it would shatter everything in his life.

He glanced over at Blaine then, wondering if he could feel it too, the ever-present sinking feeling that settled in his bones every time something good happened, like he was waiting for the pendulum to swing back and balance it all out. Kurt's whole life had felt like that, and nothing good had ever come without a price.

"I wish we could be in London to see Oscar Wilde's new play," Kurt remarked, apropos of nothing. "It opens on Valentine's Day. Something romantic about that, I think."

Blaine hummed in approval, but didn't offer any additional commentary, leaving Kurt alone with his thoughts for the moment.

An advertisement glued to several of the buildings proclaimed the Cotton States and International Expositionwould be opening in September. "That must be what they're constructing at the other end of town," Blaine offered, gesturing to one of the advertisements. "In Piedmont Park."

Kurt nodded in agreement, but his eyes went to a young man walking on the opposite side of the street. He was wearing a vibrant butter-colored suit, distinct lace cuffs peering out at the end of his coat sleeves, a velvet overcoat flaring out behind him in a pronounced fashion thanks to a particular swish in his walk that was unmistakable even to Kurt's unpracticed eye. And of course his dark blond hair was longer than was the style, leaving no doubt as to the man's lifestyle.

"I can't believe he's wearing that," Kurt said, nudging Blaine's shoulder and gesturing for him to look across the street. The man he pointed at was so unbelievably stylish and brash, it intrigued Kurt in an unexpected way. "It's so… bold."

"It's idiotic is what it is," Blaine said, his upper lip curling in disgust. "He might as well be wearing a sign proclaiming 'I'm an invert.' "

Kurt halted his steps and stared at Blaine in shock. There was nothing inherently wrong with dressing boldly. He himself had long admired men and women who chose to follow their own muse rather than the styles of the day, meanwhile secretly wishing he was courageous enough to do the same.

"I think it's brave," he said, nose held high. "He's not afraid to be himself. What's wrong with that?"

Blaine, who was now a few steps ahead of Kurt, had to turn around to face him. "Kurt, you're not serious, are you?"

In many ways, Kurt understood the importance of appearances more than Blaine, having spent his life trying to appear to be more than he was. But on this matter he couldn't help but bristle at Blaine judging a man Kurt desperately wished he had the bravery to be.

"And what if I am?" Kurt challenged. "What if I were to start dressing like that man?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Blaine spat. He began walking again, but Kurt didn't follow. He was glued to the spot in his distaste for Blaine's disparagement of the dandy so boldly walking down Piedmont Avenue without regard for public opinion.

Kurt had been honest when he said Blaine had more freedom. He exploited it, in fact, always using his status to secure him privileges most could only dream of. Kurt didn't have that leeway, and although Blaine's was a straighter line to toe, a more direct path to the same destination - marriage, family, obligation – Kurt couldn't help but feel that he still had the option to embrace the gay lifestyle of New York's fairies.

On the other hand, Blaine had more to lose. What he and Kurt shared could ruin Blaine; Kurt could simply leave and start over somewhere and no one would be any the wiser. But Blaine… everything he had was tied into his family, his name, and his status.

Kurt felt suddenly weary, and in that moment, trapped – by both his chosen lifestyle and the prospect of having a different one.

"I think perhaps I should go back," he said, swaying on his feet. "I'm feeling lightheaded."

Before he could finish his sentence, Blaine's hand was gripping his elbow tightly, grounding him and keeping him from collapsing on the pavement.

"Maybe we should rest for a moment," Blaine said. "We've been walking an awful lot, and you're not completely well yet."

"I'm fine," Kurt said, stubbornly yanking his arm from Blaine's grasp. He was still fuming from Blaine's rebuff and really didn't want to be seen as weak.

"Kurt, I'm sorry," Blaine said, his eyes pleading with Kurt as he stared back, unblinking. The vulnerability in his features gave Kurt pause, but the unsettled feeling didn't quite go away. When Kurt didn't respond, he added a broken, "Please… "

Heaving a sigh as he tried to compose himself, Kurt uncrossed his arms and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Having the time to finally relax into each other was a luxury they reveled in, so much so that they had hardly left their room since they arrived. Kurt didn't want to spoil it now.

"I don't want to argue," he said.

"Me neither," Blaine admitted, his voice a quiet echo of its usually bright tone.

"Let's just go see the jeweler so you can buy Quinn's ring, and then we can enjoy our few days here in Atlanta," Kurt said, finally smiling again, even as his insides roiled with warning that he wasn't completely over their disagreement. He could let it go for now – for Blaine.

The smile Kurt got in return looked a little pinched as well, but he chose to ignore it for the moment. They had business to attend to, and it would serve no one for them to be quarreling on Piedmont Avenue for the whole world to see. Kurt glanced around, furtively looking for the young dandy who had started the whole mess, but he was nowhere to be seen.

The pair walked on in silence for a bit, the tension still pulling them taut and thin, but neither chose to acknowledge it. There was no point at the moment anyway because they had reached their destination.

The jeweler, an old friend of Blaine's grandfather, had his shop on Piedmont Avenue not far from Kurt and Blaine's hotel, and the Andersons were able to buy on credit from him.

The bell on the door jingled brightly as they entered the shop, announcing their arrival and taunting Kurt with its cheery tone.

"Good morning," the salesman greeted. "What can I do for you gentlemen today?"

"Hello," Blaine responded politely. "I'm Blaine Anderson. I'm here to see Mr. Pratt."

"Oh yes, Mr. Anderson, we've been expecting you. I thought you were getting in to Atlanta a few days ago."

"I had some… unexpected business to attend to," Blaine said, shuffling nervously on his feet as his eyes shifted briefly to Kurt.

The clerk followed Blaine's eye line and looked Kurt up and down, his gaze curious and a little judgmental. "May I help you, sir?" he asked.

"He's—"

"I'm here with Mr. Anderson," Kurt said simply, and without offering further explanation.

"Very well, then," the clerk said, "I'll go get Mr. Pratt. You gentlemen wait here, please."

As the man disappeared behind a curtain, Kurt huffed out a frustrated breath.

"He didn't mean anything by it, Kurt," Blaine reassured, his voice a hushed whisper.

"I'm sure," Kurt gritted out, lifting his nose proudly into the air and squaring the set of his shoulders. He couldn't take back the man's obvious disdain, but he could protect himself from further discomfort by acting the part, something he had become well-practiced at over the years.

"Blaine!" a booming voice exclaimed. "I finally get to meet some of Andrew's brood."

Mr. Pratt emerged from behind the curtain where his salesman had earlier disappeared, a beaming smile on his face beneath a thick, honey-colored mustache. His suit was exquisitely made — a deep charcoal color with a faint pinstripe — and had likely been custom-fitted for the small, slender man, who seemed larger than life even as Kurt and Blaine practically towered over him. He didn't seem like the type of man who would associate with Dr. Anderson at all, and Kurt found himself curious about their relationship.

While Blaine talked to Mr. Pratt about the type of ring he was looking to purchase, Kurt browsed the cases, finding everything from match safes to hat pins. His eyes caught on a small brass brooch, a rectangular stone set between two embossed daisies amid a series of interlocking swirls. It was a beautiful pin, but the color of the stone was what captured his eye: a clear amber-colored glass gem, deep and honeyed against the bright metal.

"Would you like to see something?" Mr. Pratt asked, his attentions on Kurt now that Blaine was browsing the rings.

"I was just looking for a gift for my fiancée," he said. "She would love that brooch." He pointed to the glass case, and Mr. Pratt smiled, his pale blue eyes dancing as he pulled out the pin and passed it to Kurt.

"It's beautiful," Blaine said, his voice suddenly a mere hair's breadth from Kurt's right ear. "Rachel will love it."

Kurt turned the pin over in his hands, wondering how much it cost and if he had enough money on him to even attempt to negotiate a fair price.

"Have you decided on a ring?" Mr. Pratt asked, interrupting Kurt's thoughts.

"I have narrowed it down to two," Blaine replied, "but I was hoping Kurt here would give me his opinion on the matter."

Kurt tilted his head to look at Blaine fully, and saw that he was holding two small diamond rings. One was an elaborate setting with several smaller stones, but the other was a single diamond set in a simple gold band with a delicate filigree pattern adorning its surface. Kurt instantly knew it was the one Quinn would prefer. He glanced up at Blaine and smiled, pointing to the second ring. "That one."

"Are you certain?" Blaine asked, glancing back and forth between the two. "You don't think—"

"Blaine, trust me." Kurt closed Blaine's hand around the ring, squeezing it as he did so. He saw Blaine's eyes flutter shut at the touch, but he caught himself quickly and turned back to Mr. Pratt.

"The gentleman has spoken," Blaine said, handing the ring to the jeweler.

"Shall I wrap up that pin as well?" Mr. Pratt asked, turning to Kurt.

"Um… I—I don't think so," Kurt said, laying the pin on the counter. "I really shouldn't."

Kurt's face flushed with shame as he turned to exit the shop, but a firm hand on his arm stopped him.

"Kurt," Blaine pleaded.

"I saw a shop I wanted to visit," he lied. "I'll wait for you outside."

He heard Blaine begin to speak, but the cheerful bell masked every other sound as he exited the shop. Leaning against the brick façade of the building, Kurt kicked fruitlessly at nothing, his frustration burning brightly. He took out a cigarette and paced in front of the jeweler's shop while trying to light it, but his hands were shaking from anger as he attempted to strike the match.

Why did everything have to be so complicated? At least it was without money or status, and Kurt was sick of not having either. He couldn't even buy his fiancée a stupid pin. And to top it all off, Kurt had embarrassed himself as well as Blaine.

Throwing his third broken match into the street, he nearly shouted at the futility of it all. Feeling tears welling up, Kurt swiped the back of his hand across his eyes and took out another match, trying again to light the cigarette he had clenched between his teeth. When the head of the match struck the back of the package and erupted in flame, Kurt exhaled a shaky breath and let the small moment of relief wash over him.

The taste and scent of tobacco flooded his senses and instantly began to ease his tension. A light breeze wafted over him, cooling his overheated face and finally giving him some true relief from his anguish. He walked further down the sidewalk and allowed himself to wander absently along the street, watching his feet as he counted his own steps.

He felt blinded by his love for Blaine, and he was losing his battle against temptation. How would he tell Rachel? _Could_ he tell Rachel? It seemed an insane notion to even consider it, but the thought of living a lie felt entirely wrong to Kurt. His keen sense of obligation forced him to honor his commitment even as it warred with his need to be honest with her.

Being an accomplice to Blaine's pretense was one thing; creating his own farce of a marriage was a weight he couldn't bear. The idea of breaking Rachel's heart to save his own seemed incredibly selfish, an action his father would most definitely not condone, but the thought of not having Blaine in his life was even more distressing than disappointing his father. There was no way to come out the victor.

Kurt was shaken from his thoughts by the shop's bell as it rung out again, this time the sound muffled by the distance and his own thoughts.

Even at a distance, Kurt could see Blaine exited the shop with a broad smile on his face, and Kurt watched him for a moment, content just to see him without any of his usual burdens weighing him down.

As he approached from up the street, he could see Blaine's brow furrow in confusion as he glanced around, likely looking for Kurt.

"What on earth has you grinning like a Cheshire cat?" Kurt called out.

Blaine's head swiveled to meet his gaze and the broad smile returned.

"I thought maybe I'd lost you to a fabric shop," Blaine teased.

"Never, my good sir. I was simply enjoying the midday breeze."

"It is a lovely day," Blaine agreed, tilting his head back to take in the practically cloudless sky. "What say you to lunch at one of Atlanta's finest cafes?"

"Lead the way," Kurt replied, his smile never leaving his face, even though his worry still tickled the back of his mind like a stray hair on the back of his collar. "Did you get Quinn's ring settled?" he asked, hoping to keep the conversation going to distract him from his more troublesome thoughts.

"I did indeed, and also another little bauble."

"You'll spoil her," Kurt admonished.

"It's not for Quinn," Blaine replied, smirking.

Kurt raised an eyebrow, wondering what on earth Blaine could have purchased and for whom, when he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small navy blue box and handed it to Kurt.

Stopping in the street, Kurt ran his fingers over the top of the box delicately, feeling the smooth grain of the velvet underneath his fingertips. He flipped the lid open to reveal the same brass pin he had been looking at in Mr. Pratt's shop. He glanced from the pin to Blaine and back again, still not understanding. Blaine's face was set in a wide smile, his golden eyes dancing with excitement as he awaited Kurt's reaction.

"What is this?" Kurt demanded.

"It's Rachel's pin," Blaine answered, as if it were obvious, and still with that absurd smile on his face.

"But why did you buy it?" Kurt could feel the anger begin to bubble up within him, it brought with it embarrassment and shame for good measure.

"I thought… Well, you looked like you wanted it, and since you probably couldn't afford—"

"You thought you'd buy it _for_ me?" Kurt gritted out. "For _my_ fiancée? Because you felt sorry for me."

"Kurt it wasn't like that."

"No, I think it's exactly like that," he said, tears stinging his eyes for the second time that day.

"Kurt, no… I just know what it's like for you, and I have a trust fund. What's the point of getting married to keep it if I can't spend it?"

"I don't need charity," Kurt spat.

"It's not… Kurt, you can't believe that."

"I don't know what to believe anymore."

"Rachel doesn't have to know."

"That's not the point!" Kurt shouted. "It would be a lie — _another_ lie. And this," he gestured between them, "is quite enough to deal with already."

"So it's about lying to Rachel?" Blaine asked, his face twisted into confusion.

"It's about not honoring my promise," Kurt said. "Why can't you understand that?"

"I understand that you don't _have_ to get married."

Kurt froze. "Yes, I most certainly do," he said.

"No, you don't," Blaine insisted. "What's the worst that will happen if you don't? Rachel will marry someone else?"

"I can't believe you're saying this."

"It's not like you love her."

"Of _course_ I love her," Kurt said, his frustration forcing his voice to pitch higher. He needed to get out of there, away from Blaine and this infuriatingly confusing conversation. He felt as if the breath were taken from his lungs; he gasped for air as he felt his pulse quicken.

"I'm simply saying that if you weren't marrying Rachel, you'd be free to pursue your dreams, Kurt, and I don't want you to have to compromise because of some promise you made before you knew who you were."

"I don't know who _I_ am?" Kurt questioned. "Me? Are you even listening to yourself?"

"We don't both of us have to be stuck in loveless marriages," Blaine insisted.

"Neither of us does," Kurt said.

"I do." Blaine's expression was defeated. His shoulders sagged heavily as he gave himself over to the inevitability of it all.

"Only if you want to keep the money."

"I can't do that to Quinn," Blaine said.

"So what makes you think I could do that to Rachel?"

Blaine looked dumbfounded at the revelation. "Kurt…" He reached out for Kurt's arm.

"No, I'm going to go for a walk. I'll meet you back at the hotel later."

Kurt turned heel and didn't look back even as he heard Blaine calling out to him. He couldn't bear to be in the man's company. Not now. He needed to think, to decide if he could really do this.

Blaine must have understood his need to be alone because he didn't follow him, a fact Kurt was grateful for as he dipped into the first saloon he saw. The barkeep was a weathered old man with thinning, white hair and a prominent gut, his large trousers held up by two worn leather braces, and his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. He nodded once to Kurt before waiting on a man already seated at the bar. Kurt took the stool to the man's left and waited his turn. The bar top was clean, but well-worn, with deep gouges in its wooden surface. The place itself was gloomy and dark, covered in a thick haze of cigar smoke, but it seemed the perfect type of place to forget himself and drown his sorrows in a stiff drink.

"What'll it be, sir?"

Kurt patted his pockets to check his financial situation and, finding he still had more than enough cash on him, he plunked down a few coins on the counter and said, "Whiskey, please."

The bartender nodded and returned with a bottle and a small glass, pouring out a fair amount of the deep amber liquid and leaving Kurt with his thoughts. He made a quick pass of the room with his gaze, noting there were few patrons in the bar this time of day; it was only just past noon, after all. But one gentleman immediately caught his eye, unmistakable in his butter-colored suit, sitting at a table in a back corner and watching Kurt intently.

When Kurt met the man's eye, he gestured for Kurt to join him. Not giving it a second thought, Kurt rose from his bar stool and headed for the secluded table, seating himself across from the dandy and setting his glass of untouched whiskey on the table.

"I saw you on the street earlier," Kurt said, without preamble. "Mr. …?"

"Kiehl," the man replied. "I saw you as well. Lover's spat?"

Kurt bristled, his face growing warmer, and he still hadn't touched his whiskey.

"It's quite all right," Mr. Kiehl said, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Your secret is safe with me." He opened his coat to reveal a bright green carnation pinned to the inside of his coat just below the chest pocket. Kurt wasn't sure what the flower meant, but he could piece it together from the man's words.

Kurt cleared his throat self-consciously and took a sip from his glass. The liquor burned but also served to strengthen his resolve. Mr. Kiehl was the first man, apart from Blaine, who freely admitted his preference in front of him, and he couldn't resist the opportunity to know more.

"We were arguing about you," Kurt said finally, huffing out a laugh at the irony of it all. "I said you were brave for dressing so boldly. He thought you a fool."

"I'm not surprised," Mr. Kiehl said. "This gentleman of yours, he has money? A _family_ name?"

"Both," Kurt replied solemnly.

Mr. Kiehl nodded knowingly. "I've been with that type of man before," he said. "They just don't get fellas like us."

"He's not—"

"Oh, maybe not now, or not all the time, but he will be. Eventually it all becomes too much and they run home to the missus."

"I was helping him pick out an engagement ring." Kurt said, dropping his head in his hands.

"Mister, you've got it bad."

"Hummel," he mumbled.

"Pardon?"

Kurt raised his head, and looked wearily up at the man sitting across from him. "My name is Kurt Hummel."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kurt Hummel," Mr. Kiehl said, holding out a hand. "It's always nice to meet a fellow aesthete."

Kurt shook the man's hand firmly, taking note of how soft and delicate his hands felt, even softer than Blaine's, and he wondered how the man made his money if he wasn't a gentleman. It was obvious from his attire that he had quite a bit of disposable income, or at least some very wealthy benefactors.

"Mr. Kiehl, if I may be so bold, how does one come by such exquisitely tailored clothes here in Atlanta?"

"Gentlemen, well… let's just say, a certain kind of gentleman, might be willing to pay for the services of an expert in the 'aesthetic' movement." To punctuate his words, the man waggled his eyebrows lewdly, and there was no mistaking his meaning.

"So you're a…" Kurt leaned in and whispered just barely loud enough to be heard, "a rent boy."

"Yes, and proudly so."

Feeling his skin flushing with heat and color, Kurt took a sip of his whiskey, hoping the spirits would dull his senses somewhat and make him more comfortable having such an impolite conversation with a near stranger. The warmth of the drink traveled down his throat and coated his stomach with the low-burning fire he instantly appreciated; the bitter honeyed flavor saturated his tongue and his mind, making his words come more freely.

"Doesn't that make you feel… used?" Kurt wondered aloud.

"Quite the contrary, actually," Mr. Kiehl said. "I take money for something I would offer freely, and I don't have to associate with men I find unappealing."

"Yes, but what of love?"

"Love in the traditional sense is for the lower class, and certainly not an aesthete. I fall in love every time I take a new man to bed, and fall out of love just as quickly. It's far less complicated this way."

Kurt snorted into his empty glass. "I think I need another whiskey," he said.

Mr. Kiehl signaled for the bartender and soon they both had fresh drinks. Kurt's second one paid for by his companion.

"So tell me, Mr. Hummel, what brings you to Atlanta?" Mr. Kiehl pulled a cigarette from his brightly polished silver case and tapped it against the table, before pulling out a match and lighting it. He offered one to Kurt, who graciously accepted as he spoke.

"Blaine, he's my… well, he's the gentleman you saw me with," Kurt supplied. "He's here to buy his intended an engagement ring."

Kurt inhaled deeply from the cigarette, noting the quality of the tobacco was similar to Blaine's private blend. He held the smoke in his lungs for a while, content to savor it on the heels of the rich, soothing flavor of the whiskey.

"But I asked why you're here," Mr. Kiehl corrected.

"I'm convalescing," Kurt joked.

"Oh yes, I can see how green around the gills you look." Chandler chuckled brightly, a distinct musical lilt to his laughter. Kurt couldn't help but admire such a quality, and joined him, feeling freer than he had in some time. Strange that at 19 he should feel so caged, but he had grown so used to it, he knew no other way.

"Well, that's what we told my father, anyway," Kurt said, deciding he could trust this man with the truth. "We're both spending the winter in St. Augustine, but we'll be headed back to New York next month."

"I'm from New York as well," Mr. Kiehl said, beaming. "We should toast."

"To what?"

"Being fellow…" He paused and glanced from side to side, Kurt following his gaze. When they both spotted the bartender watching them, he said, "New Yorkers," and added a sly wink that was only visible to Kurt.

Kurt raised his glass with a smile and saluted his companion with it. "To New York."

"To freedom," Mr. Kiehl added.

When he set his empty glass down for a second time, Kurt could feel the alcohol buzzing pleasantly through him, warming his insides and taking away the tetchy feeling he'd been battling since he'd left the jewelers. A glance at his watch told him it was well past lunch time now, and his belly immediately reminded him he had yet to consume any food since the hurried breakfast he and Blaine had shared when they'd finally extricated themselves from each other's arms.

"Mr. Kiehl, might you know of a place nearby where we might take in a late luncheon? I'm famished and all this whiskey shall have me singing in the streets like a drunkard if I don't eat something soon."

"If you're planning to court me, Mr. Hummel, we shall have to inform my father," he teased. "And please, call me Chandler."

"I'm afraid I'm spoken for," Kurt said, standing up. He paused for a moment and then added with a laugh, "twice."

Chandler turned toward him, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Twice?"

"I'm engaged to be married as well."

"Interesting."

"That's one way of looking at it," Kurt said morosely.

"Well, how do you look at it?" Chandler asked as he gestured with his walking stick for Kurt to take a left out of the saloon. The cane had a silver knob at the top, embossed with swirls of botanical patterns. It likely cost a fortune, leaving no doubt this man made more than a decent living as a rent boy.

"I'm a caged canary," Kurt said. "And my only other option if I want to be free is to go back to being a common pigeon."

"Well, now that's not entirely true," Chandler replied after a moment of looking thoughtful. "You could always do what I do."

Kurt could see the appeal, and he had to admit, Chandler was a handsome man. The man had a boyish charm to him, even if his spectacles made him look bookish. His blond hair was carefully styled, and he had pleasant blue eyes and a charming smile. Would he be as charismatic a lover as Blaine? Did he possess skills and knowledge that Kurt's lover did not have? The thought was fleeting, but he couldn't say he wasn't intrigued by the possibility. His heart, however, was taken - no matter how angry he was, Kurt knew he would be returning to Blaine's bed that night.

"I don't think it's for me," Kurt said finally.

"We shall see."

Before Kurt could question him further, Chandler turned a corner and came to a stop in front of a small café a few blocks over from the establishment they had just left. When they entered, it seemed the plump matron running the place knew Chandler by the way she greeted him with a crushing hug and a wet kiss to the cheek.

"Mr. Kiehl," she said in heavily accented English. "You always bring such handsome young men with you. My husband, he will be jealous."

"I promise no one will besmirch your good name, my lady. Mr. Hummel and I lost track of time in the pub and missed luncheon. Might you be able to scrape up some fare for us?"

"Anything for you, caro."

"She seems to like you," Kurt said when the woman was out of earshot.

"I am a frequent customer," Chandler said with a shrug, "and she's Italian."

"And you bring her handsome young men," Kurt teased.

"Well, you are," Chandler said. He held Kurt's gaze for a moment, and Kurt could feel his heartbeat accelerating. It wasn't quite the same as how Blaine made him feel, but it was a pleasant reaction nonetheless.

"Thank you," he said, trying not to blush.

Thankfully, the matron returned just as Chandler was about to speak again. She carried a small loaf of bread and a bottle of wine that she set down in front of them.

"Eat," she commanded. "Drink the wine, and I will bring you something hot." And then she was gone again, back toward what Kurt assumed was the kitchen.

"So tell me more about this Blaine of yours," Chandler commanded, pouring them each a generous portion of the wine, and breaking off a piece of the crusty bread.

By the time they had eaten their fill and drunk two bottles of wine, the sun had long since set, and Kurt's tongue was loose from the drink as they stepped into the night.

"Oh my goodness," he said. "I haven't kept you from paying company, have I?"

Chandler laughed, and his words were slurred together when he spoke. Kurt wondered if maybe he sounded a bit like that too.

"I think I can afford one night off," Chandler said. "Unless you'd like to do something that would require payment."

He stumbled into Kurt and nearly toppled them both into the street. They both erupted into boyish giggles as they tried to right themselves. A passing gentleman gave them a stern, disapproving look that forced Kurt to bite his lip to keep from laughing harder. He dusted off Chandler's coat and nodded to the stranger.

"A little too much to drink," Kurt supplied, earning him a tut of disapproval as the man continued down the street.

"They're all just a bunch of snobs, who probably get drunker than I am and beat their wives," Chandler scoffed, just loud enough that it carried and echoed on the brick of the surrounding buildings.

"Keep your voice down," Kurt said, feeling a little sobered by the interaction; suddenly Chandler's boldness seemed a tad dangerous out on the darkened street.

"Where to now, Mr. Hummel?"

"You tell me," he said. "You've been in Atlanta longer than I have."

Chandler looked thoughtful for a moment and then tossed his walking stick in the air, catching it in triumph, albeit sloppily with his senses no doubt being dulled by the wine just as Kurt's were. The theatrical movement made Kurt laugh again, or maybe that was the wine as well.

"We should ride the street car," Chandler said. "There's a club on the other side of town that might be more our speed."

Kurt couldn't quite sort out what exactly Chandler meant by that, but decided, either through his own reckless nature or the liquid courage he had just consumed, that it was high time he found out.

Boarding the Nine-Mile Circle — the city's popular street car line — behind Chandler, Kurt suddenly felt a sense of discomfort that was at odds with the warm feeling in his belly from the combination of wine and good company. He glanced over at his companion, taking in Chandler's brash appearance for what felt like the hundredth time that day, and wondered what the rest of the world saw.

A cursory glance around the car revealed a handful of other passengers, most notably a young mother and her small child who glared at them down the bridge of her pointed nose. In an attempt to sway her, Kurt smiled warmly and tipped his hat, but the woman tugged her daughter closer to her and haughtily shifted her gaze out the window. Kurt recoiled in on himself and focused his eyes on his own hands, pulling at his fingers as he felt Chandler's eyes on him.

"Don't worry about her," he reassured, patting Kurt on the arm. "I'm used to it."

"It's just not fair that she'd judge us based on what she sees," Kurt challenged without looking up.

"But she'd be right."

Kurt looked up at Chandler, ready to refute him as he had so many times to strangers before, but he realized the man was right. Kurt was just like him, and it was blatantly obvious to anyone who looked at them. He couldn't decide if that bothered him or not.

Turning his gaze out the window, Kurt watched as they passed through a posh Atlanta neighborhood. His eyes lingered on the gentlemen in top hats and ladies in silk dresses as the street car came to a stop. The woman who had glared at them exited with her daughter, throwing a final admonishing glance over her shoulder, a muttered "dirty inverts" under her breath.

"Pay her no mind," Chandler soothed. He gripped Kurt's hand tightly in warning to keep him from hurling the retort that Chandler must have sensed was on the tip of his tongue.

Kurt seethed, all at once reminded of everything that Blaine was worried about — the judgmental glances, the rescinded invitations, the tarnished reputations — and found he was suddenly sick with how he had treated Blaine. It wasn't his fault that he was worried about being found out; they both were, and he had acted like a child. He worried his lip between his teeth as both anxiety and regret washed over him.

When they crossed over Ponce de Leon Avenue, Kurt was hit with a sudden and deep longing to see Blaine as his thoughts were turned to St. Augustine and the decadent hotel where they had met.

"I should get back," Kurt said abruptly.

Chandler's smile fell instantly, but he looked as if he understood when he said, "Of course."

Kurt held out his right hand, and as Chandler shook it firmly he said, "Thank you for a lovely afternoon, Mr. Kiehl."

"My pleasure," Chandler said, offering Kurt a small card.

Turning it over in his hand, Kurt could see it was a calling card that read "Chandler M. Kiehl, _Orator & Aesthete_, Columbia Hall, Bowery & Fifth St., New York."

"Look me up when you're back in New York," Chandler said, leaning forward and kissing Kurt on the cheek, not even sparing the other passengers a fleeting glance.

Kurt did not reply, simply smiling and shoving the card in his pocket. He jumped down from the street car and ran the remaining six blocks to the hotel.


	12. Chapter 12

Blaine paced manically in the sitting room of their suite at the Hotel Aragon. It had been more than six hours since he had last seen Kurt, and he was growing worried.

As he berated himself for letting Kurt go off on his own, Blaine replayed their argument in his mind. What if Kurt was really and truly finished with him? He didn't think he could handle it; it reminded him far too much of Oliver.

Kurt simply didn't understand –– Blaine would lose his trust fund if he didn't marry before he turned 26. His father had rewritten it several years ago when he had learned that Blaine had no intentions to marry, and without his engagement to Quinn, Blaine was penniless. No matter what lifestyle he intended to maintain, he simply couldn't continue in his current lifestyle without money. Likewise, it would be difficult to manage with a wife. He was at an impasse, but the wife could be negotiated, and he had a feeling Quinn would be malleable in that pursuit.

Kurt's engagement to Rachel was another matter entirely. He didn't have to marry her, and yet he was set on doing so. It confounded Blaine to no end, because if he were in Kurt's position, he'd most certainly be living the bachelor's lifestyle in New York and not bothering with a wife and family. Not to mention, he'd stick to his intentions to become an artist and practice Greek love in every way possible — with Kurt if he'd have him.

Why did this all have to be so complicated? Blaine simply wanted to be with the man he loved, who had now been gone for far too long.

Blaine was about to alert the hotel staff to his "brother's" disappearance when Kurt stumbled through the door and landed in a heap on the rug in the sitting room.

"Kurt!" he exclaimed. "Are you alright?"

As he reached down to help Kurt to his feet, the smell of wine and tobacco wafted off of him and assaulted Blaine's senses.

Kurt erupted into a fit of giggles, confirming what Blaine already suspected.

"You're drunk," he stated plainly.

"Only a little," Kurt slurred. "Too much wine."

He clambered to get to his feet, but only succeeded in pulling Blaine on top of him, inciting his laughter anew.

"Kurt, come on," Blaine pleaded. "Get up. This is unbecoming."

"We're alone, silly. No one to see." Kurt began unbuttoning Blaine's waistcoat while looking up at him with flirtatious eyes. Blaine tried to remain cross, but it was to no avail when assaulted with the deep ocean of Kurt's gaze.

"I was so worried about you," Blaine said, kissing the words into Kurt's lips. "Where were you?"

"I made a friend," Kurt said, pouting as he ran a hand through Blaine's hair. "But you wouldn't approve."

Blaine reached up to still his hand; he couldn't think when Kurt was touching him like that. "Why not, my darling?"

"Because it was that dandy we saw… earlier today." Kurt toyed with the buttons of Blaine's shirt as he talked, his nimble fingers tantalizing in the way they danced over the fabric like Blaine wanted them traversing his skin. "Remember?"

As Kurt's words slowly sank in, Blaine pulled back from Kurt's grasp and rose to standing, leaving Kurt pouting up at him from the floor.

"What were you thinking?" Blaine demanded. Any number of things could have happened to Kurt running around with a man like that. If anyone had suspected…

"See, I knew you'd be cross," Kurt said with a sigh as he leaned back and laid himself out, right there on the floor.

"I'm not cross, dammit! I'm worried. People don't approve of that sort of lifestyle, Kurt. You could have been killed."

Kurt waved a lazy hand at him, effectively dismissing Blaine's concern. "We were fine," he said. "We shared a few drinks, a meal, and then we took the street car. Completely respectable." He nodded to emphasize his words and then dropped his head back on the floor.

"Kurt…"

"I'm perfectly fine, Blaine," Kurt insisted. "Apart from having had a bit too much wine." He grabbed his head and opened one eye to peer up at Blaine. "Now please join me down here, or I shall be forced to drag you down by your ankles."

"Kurt, we should talk," Blaine said, still feeling askew from his worry and the argument that had caused Kurt to disappear for the better part of the afternoon and evening.

"Then come down here and talk to me," Kurt said, holding out his arms in invitation.

Blaine couldn't resist such an offer, quickly lowering himself to his knees and sprawling out alongside Kurt in the middle of their sitting room. Kurt was warm and smiling, and despite the earlier tension, Blaine felt himself getting lost in the consolation of his presence. He listened to their breathing for a time, each inhale and exhale taking his anger and converting it to the need for his lover's reassurance.

"Why did you run off?" he asked when he could bear the silence no longer.

Kurt immediately reached out for Blaine's hand and interlaced their fingers. His breathing was steady, but Blaine could sense the tension returning to his body even as he gripped the man's hand tighter.

"Because you don't understand why I have to marry Rachel," Kurt said, matter-of-factly.

"So why don't you tell me?" Blaine prompted, curling his body in toward Kurt so that he was lying on his side, studying Kurt's exquisite profile.

Kurt closed his eyes and sighed heavily, a high flush still on his cheeks from the wine he had consumed. He looked stunning, and although Blaine longed to tell him so, he sensed this was not the time.

"Sometimes I think you have it so easy," Kurt said. He lifted their joined hands and stared at them for a moment before pulling them to his lips and kissing Blaine's. "And then I remember your life isn't perfect either."

"It's far from perfect, I assure you."

"I know… " he trailed off, and ran the back of Blaine's hand along his own cheek.

Blaine loved Kurt like this, loose and free under the haze of wine, but he needed them to finish this conversation, if only for his own peace of mind.

"I love Rachel," Kurt said suddenly. "She's practically family."

"But it's not the same."

"No," Kurt replied, turning his head toward Blaine and smiling fondly at him. "It's not the same."

"You don't have to marry her," Blaine said softly, hoping Kurt was receptive to discussing it. "You have dreams. I can't bear to see you give that all up for someone you don't love."

"Blaine, I made a promise," Kurt said, turning to face him. "That means something to me, and I can't do that to her. She needs me."

Blaine couldn't believe it never occurred to him before, that Kurt might be marrying Rachel for selfless reasons. The irony, of course, was that Kurt had told him that himself the night they met. He wanted to take care of Rachel and keep her mother from having to remarry. Blaine suddenly felt very stupid and small.

"I– I didn't realize," Blaine said. "I never thought…" He paused, leaning forward to kiss Kurt on the lips, hoping he could truly sense the apology as he said, "I'm sorry."

"I know," Kurt said. "I'm sorry, too. For running off like that. But you bought that stupid pin and I couldn't take it anymore. You have everything I want, Blaine… _everything_."

"Not everything," Blaine insisted, knowing that even though he'd never had to make a promise to anyone the way Kurt had promised Rachel, he still had his family's expectations to live up to.

"No, but Quinn would recover if you chose not to marry her."

"Perhaps, but my family wouldn't. My reasons for marrying may be more selfish than yours, Kurt, but they are still commitments that I must honor."

Blaine also hadn't forgotten his promise to God that if Kurt survived his illness, he would marry Quinn and do what his family expected. He wasn't a particularly religious man, but he felt the weight of obligation nonetheless.

"Are you really penniless if you don't marry?" The sweetly sad concern in Kurt's voice pulled Blaine from his thoughts. He reached out to stroke Kurt's cheek.

"Penniless and without any reliable trade to fall back on, I'm afraid."

"What about your job offer from Mr. Flagler?" Kurt asked, his eyes fluttering closed under Blaine's touch.

"I have a feeling that if I turn my back on my family, all such offers would dry up," Blaine replied.

"I could hire you," Kurt said.

"Whatever for?" Blaine asked with a laugh.

Kurt looked thoughtful for a moment, his brow furrowing in concentration, and then his face broke out into a wide, teasing smile. "You could be my valet," he said. "Although, I couldn't pay you. At least not with money."

"Well, how do you plan on compensating me for my services, Mr. Hummel?" Blaine asked, inching closer to Kurt on the floor.

"Like this," Kurt said, leaning forward and kissing Blaine full on the lips.

Blaine opened his mouth to encourage Kurt's efforts, savoring the closeness between them, until the unyielding surface of the floor dug into his left hip and urged him off the ground.

"Come to bed," Blaine urged.

Kurt hummed his acknowledgement, his lips pursed together as if he were memorizing the feel of Blaine's mouth covering his. Blaine felt his heart swell at the sight of him, flushed and still a little tipsy and almost luminescent in the fading light of the fire.

Blaine rose quickly, extending a hand to help Kurt up. Swaying only a little, Kurt leaned into him as he stood, resting his free hand at Blaine's waist and kissing him softly on the neck, just above his collar. Blaine gasped at the contact, a mix of affection and seduction that made him eager to get them both to bed, and even more importantly, undressed.

Kurt's hand felt warm and familiar in his own; he hadn't realized how quickly that had happened, Kurt's presence had become a safe place for him. It was home.

Stopping in the doorway of the bedroom, he turned to face Kurt, leaning in so their lips were nearly touching, a mere breath apart, and whispered, "Kiss me."

Kurt complied, and soon Blaine was nearly drowning in Kurt once more. When they pulled apart, Kurt's eyes were swimming in tears, as if he were just holding back the emotion and keeping himself from crying.

"What is it, my love?" Blaine asked, cupping Kurt's cheek gently in his palm as he searched his lover's eyes for answers.

"I'm just so happy," Kurt said with a laugh that he choked off with a half sob. "To be here, with you… in this place. It's everything. I wish we didn't have to go back."

Blaine closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to Kurt's, knowing every word Kurt said as if it were his own. It seemed so unjust that he should be destined to fall in love with the one person whom he could never have. That he would be cursed with the burden of betraying his true self to preserve appearances, while the man he loved must do the same.

Just as he was about to pull away, Blaine felt Kurt's fingers close around his hand where it was still resting on his cheek. He gripped Kurt's hand tightly and pulled it toward himself, letting his lips graze Kurt's knuckles.

"I was so worried I would lose you," he said, and reverently kissed Kurt's fingertips. "I would be so lost without you."

"You're never going to lose me," Kurt assured. "Not because of yellow fever, and certainly not from something as silly as a disagreement."

"Promise me," Blaine said, taking both of Kurt's hands in his own. "Promise me that when we're back in New York, we'll find a way. Whatever it takes, we'll make time for each other."

"I promise," Kurt said, his smile so wide it creased the skin at the corner of his eyes. "Whatever it takes."

* * *

The entire trip had gone by altogether too quickly and yet it somehow also blurred together in Blaine's mind, but he had a surprise planned for their final day together, and he made careful conversation with Kurt waiting for the appropriate time. Kurt remained by his side, though, never wavering in his affections or his perfection. Blaine dreaded their return to St. Augustine and his grandfather's watchful presence.

Lying in bed on their final full day in Atlanta, Blaine could do nothing but think of ways he and Kurt could steal away moments from their everyday lives to find a little of what they had shared in this city.

"We should come back this fall and go to the Expo," Blaine said, his hand wandering lazily up and down Kurt's back and neck, tracing a line he'd earlier mapped out in kisses.

"I'll be married by then," Kurt said without opening his eyes. "And you'll be engaged."

Blaine took a long drag of his cigarette, exhaling slowly as his left hand lingered in the dip of Kurt's lower back.

"Things won't be the same when we go back to New York," Kurt said when his hand stilled.

"I'm afraid not," Blaine said.

"This all feels like it has a time limit, or like I'm dreaming," Kurt said, curling tighter into Blaine's side. "I never want to wake up."

Blaine stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray on the nightstand and reached down to pull Kurt up to him. Placing his hands on either side of Kurt's face, he kissed him full on the lips and then rested their foreheads together.

"Promise me you'll never stop dreaming," he urged, closing his eyes and drinking in the closeness of his lover. "No matter if it's about love or dressmaking or what. You _never_ stop dreaming, Kurt. Ever."

Kurt was propped up awkwardly on his own hands, his body leaning forward as he strained to stay upright, but Blaine wouldn't let him go. He needed Kurt to know – needed him to understand that what they had was the most precious thing he'd ever known. It was the absolute best part of him and everything he'd never dared to dream.

"You make me feel like I'm _living_ a dream, Blaine."

Blaine surged up to kiss him, knocking Kurt over with the force; they landed in a tangle on the sheets.

"Oh, if I could stay here with you forever, I would," Blaine said, stretching to reach for the small box he had stashed under the bed, kissing Kurt all the while so he wouldn't see what Blaine was up to. When his hand closed tightly around the bundle, he pulled back and smiled at Kurt. "But since I know we have to part ways from time to time, I wanted you to have something to always remember me by. So that I'm with you in some way when I can't physically be there."

Kurt's eyes went wide as Blaine pulled the box from behind his back with a flourish, holding it between them.

"Happy Valentine's Day," Blaine said.

"Blaine, I didn't get you anything," Kurt said, sounding scandalized.

Laughter bubbled up from inside Blaine at Kurt's reaction. As if he ever wanted anything from Kurt but his love. "Will you just open it?" he insisted, nudging Kurt's hand.

Kurt didn't move for a long moment, but then his face broke into a wide smile, his countenance suddenly that of an eager child; Blaine couldn't help but feel validated by the entire experience. Watching Kurt excitedly tearing into the package warmed him from the inside out. Kurt gasped when he saw what Blaine had gotten him: a sterling silver cigarette case.

"It's beautiful," he breathed, turning it over in his hands and stroking the metal reverently, as if it might disappear from his grasp at any moment.

Kurt's exuberance radiated from him, pulling Blaine into its orbit, a place Blaine would happily stay forever if he could.

"I saw it when I bought Quinn's ring and knew you had to have it. I even had the jeweler engrave it for you."

The design was an intricate, swirling pattern of orange blossoms that intertwined to form an oval surrounding three distinct letters — Kurt's monogram — and in the upper right hand corner, a tiny bee was pollinating the flowers.

"Blaine, this is too much."

"Nonsense," he replied, waving off Kurt's protest. "There's no such thing as too much where you're concerned."

"How will I explain this to my father?" Kurt asked.

"Tell him you got lucky at a hand of poker and thought you'd treat yourself."

"He'd never believe that," Kurt said. "I'm always so practical with my money."

"Then tell him I'm the one with the good fortune."

"Well, now _that_ he might believe."

* * *

When they pulled into the station in St. Augustine, a light rain was falling, leaving an icy chill in the air that seemed to reflect how Blaine was feeling.

"We should get you into the carriage," he said to Kurt. "It wouldn't do for you to catch a cold on the heels of yellow fever."

"You're like a nervous mother hen," Kurt chided. Even so, he let Blaine help him into the cab of the carriage as the attendants unloaded their luggage.

When they were alone again and heading east toward Markland and the Ponce, Blaine took Kurt's hand for a moment, not yet ready for their time together to be at an end. "Did you enjoy the trip?" he asked, gazing at their intertwined fingers.

Leaning his head on Blaine's shoulder, he replied, "It was perfect… especially Valentine's Day."

"I'm glad."

Blaine squeezed Kurt's hand and turned to look out the window. The town looked exactly the same as when they left, but Blaine knew everything was about to change. He sensed Kurt knew it too, but there was no point in belaboring the simple fact.

As the carriage pulled up in front of Markland, Blaine heaved a weary sigh at the sight of his grandfather sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch. "I wasn't expecting him home this early," he said.

"Do you suppose something's wrong?" Kurt asked.

"Doubtful," Blaine said, squeezing Kurt's hand one last time before releasing it. "I'm not sure when I'll get to see you again, but I'll try to meet up with you after dinner tomorrow night."

Kurt nodded and tried to smile, but it fell just short, his lips barely twitching as Blaine stepped out of the carriage.

"I love you," he whispered, just loud enough that Blaine could make it out.

He couldn't risk replying audibly with Jenkins rushing up to help him with his luggage, so he simply nodded and offered a smile, hoping it would be enough. Turning to greet his grandfather, he shifted his expression to his society smile, straightening his back as he climbed the porch stairs. He tried to ignore the sound of the retreating carriage over the dirt and cobblestone as it carried his heart away.

"You're home early," Blaine said.

"Yes, well, I thought someone should be here to greet you when you returned," Dr. Anderson replied, tapping his pipe on the edge of his chair to dislodge the old tobacco.

Blaine could sense the mood shifting, and he braced himself for the impact. "We have arrangements to make."

Dr. Anderson stuffed a fresh pinch of tobacco into the bowl of his pipe and packed it down before lighting it, sucking firmly on the mouthpiece.

"Indeed we do," his grandfather replied, leaning back and leveling Blaine with a stern look. "Now, why don't you tell me what on earth you were thinking taking that Hummel boy with you to Atlanta."

"Grandfather, I—"

"I told you to stay away from him," Dr. Anderson interrupted. "He's not good for you… or this family."

"You have no idea what is good for me," Blaine spat.

"I know a damn sight more than you think!"

Blaine felt his temper flare up and course hotly through him. His grandfather had no idea what Blaine was going through, least of all what was best for him or for Kurt. "I've complied with your wishes – and my father's. I'm proposing to Miss Fabray. What more could you possibly want from me?"

His grandfather's face softened, and Blaine wondered if that was genuine concern he was seeing in the old man's eyes. Dr. Anderson stood up and placed both his hands on Blaine's shoulders. It was the first time he'd touched him with any sort of affection since Blaine had arrived in St. Augustine. "Blaine, I don't want you to endanger yourself. This isn't a game."

"Don't be ridiculous," Blaine said, unable to meet his gaze. "You don't care about me… just our family name."

"Quite the contrary, Blaine," he said, patting him on the back as he released his grip. "I care a great deal. We're family, and I'm trying to look after you."

"Why?"

His grandfather paused, puffing on his pipe, and for a moment, Blaine wasn't sure he would answer.

"Because you remind me of myself when I was your age." His voice was low, but clear.

Still, Blaine wasn't sure he'd heard the man correctly. "I beg your pardon?"

"We're more alike than you know." Dr. Anderson didn't elaborate, but his gaze was steady, and Blaine wondered what he meant. Something about the look in the man's eyes made Blaine certain his grandfather knew _something_ , but what that something was he couldn't say.

"How did you know Kurt was in Atlanta with me?" Blaine asked suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

His grandfather shifted uncomfortably on his feet and drew another long pull from his pipe. The silence seemed interminably long before he finally answered, "Mr. Pratt is an old… _friend_ , and he thought it significant and urgent information for me to have. He sent me a wire after you and Kurt left his shop."

His tone was so infuriatingly calm, it only served to anger Blaine more. It felt like a betrayal for his grandfather to be so flippant when Blaine was watching his world crumble around him.

"You're having me _watched_?"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic. Mr. Pratt just understands these sorts of things. He was looking out for our interests, my boy."

"What do you mean, 'these sorts of things'?"

Dr. Anderson waved a dismissive hand in Blaine's direction. "Nevermind," he said. "Dinner should be ready by now, and I had Jenkins set an extra place. Mary will be delighted to see you."

"I'm not hungry," Blaine muttered as they entered the house.

His voice must have carried because Mary poked her head out of the dining room and said, "Nonsense. You've been traveling all day; you need to eat."

All through dinner, Blaine tried to puzzle out what his grandfather had meant about Mr. Pratt. He thought back to the conversation he'd had with the man about Kurt's cigarette case, and wondered if he'd given anything away.

Blaine had been about to leave the shop, when he saw the cigarette cases in the corner case.

"Mr. Pratt," he'd said. "I'd like to place one more order… for a friend."

He'd decided on the design immediately, choosing the orange blossoms for their significance to his relationship with Kurt, and the monogram had been Mr. Pratt's idea. The bee, however, had been a stroke of inspiration on Blaine's part.

Mr. Pratt had asked him if he wanted anything else engraved on the case and Blaine was about to say no when he saw another pin nestled beside the empty space left by the gift he'd bought for Rachel. It was a tiny bee, and he was suddenly reminded of the nickname his mother had given him when he was just a small child.

"My little honey bee," he'd said out loud.

"I'm sorry?" Pratt had asked.

"A bee," Blaine said. "In the corner… pollinating the flowers." He remembered scrambling a bit after that to explain himself. "To, uh… make it more personal," he'd finally stammered out.

Mr. Pratt had simply smiled and nodded, finishing the order and promising to deliver it to the hotel the next day.

As Blaine was exiting the shop, the jeweler had said something that, at the time, had baffled him. Now he thought he knew what the man had meant.

"Good luck to you, Mr. Anderson. Please give my regards to Mr. Hummel. You boys may be luckier than we were."

Blaine's fork fell from his grip at the realization. Did his grandfather know? He had to have known, and if he and Mr. Pratt were old friends, surely his grandfather knew what had happened.

"Blaine," Mary said softly. "Are you alright, my dear?"

"He's fine, darling," his grandfather replied. "Probably just tired from traveling." When Blaine didn't immediately confirm, he prompted, "Right, Blaine?"

"Um, yes…" Blaine replied, shifting in his seat. "Actually, I think I'm going to retire early. If you'll excuse me."

He was out of his chair before either of them responded, climbing the stairs two at a time. When he got to his room, he shut the door firmly behind him and sat down on the edge of his bed.

His grandfather knew.

* * *

Nothing more was said on the matter, and Blaine had other things with which to concern himself, so he didn't give it much thought. If his grandfather didn't feel the need to confront him, there was no need for him to worry over it.

Besides, he had a proposal to plan, and more importantly, he needed to let Kurt know that it was going to happen sooner rather than later.

He decided to approach Kurt the next night after dinner. After searching the dining room for him to no avail, he found him in the smoking room, reading a book and nursing a whiskey.

As always, Kurt looked as if he'd been plucked from a work of art and dropped in the real world, a magical being who held Blaine captive in its aura. As Blaine strode across the room, his joy at seeing Kurt warred with his anguish that they were being pushed ever further apart by their circumstances. But as it wouldn't help to dwell on that, he put a smile on his face and said, "Will you join me for a stroll?"

Kurt looked up and smiled broadly before catching himself and forcing it into a more neutral expression. He glanced around nervously, but Blaine could see Kurt's shoulders relax when he found no one was watching them.

"Come on," Blaine prompted, tilting his head in the direction of the door. Kurt rose without a word and followed as Blaine led them down the hallway outside the smoking room and through the carriage way to the place where they had first talked the night the met: the orange groves.

"How did things go with your grandfather?" Kurt asked. His hands were buried in his pockets, but his posture was tall, his back a straight line holding his pride on clear display.

Blaine shook his head and choked out a laugh as he reached in his pocket for his cigarette case.

"He knows… about us."

Kurt's eyes went wide in shock. "How?"

Blaine shrugged; he was mostly over the surprise himself, but could appreciate Kurt's worry. "The jeweler told him you traveled to Atlanta with me, and from what I understand, Mr. Pratt has experience with Greek love himself."

"I knew there was something about him," Kurt said. "I couldn't quite put my finger on it." Kurt paused, his expression shifting from shock to concern, and Blaine watched as the dread he had been feeling began to sink in for Kurt as well. "So what does that mean… for us?"

"I couldn't say," Blaine replied. "He hasn't said anything to me apart from repeating his wish that I shouldn't be seen with you."

"Oh," was all Kurt said, looking like the air had been stolen from his lungs.

Blaine could see in the hazy glow of the light escaping from stained glass windows of the dining room that Kurt's eyes were glistening with tears. "Don't cry, my love," he whispered. "We'll find a way."

"How?" Kurt asked, sounding as desperate as Blaine felt. "The world will always be against us, Blaine. This is our fate."

"I refuse to accept that."

"And what do you propose we do, then?"

Kurt's tears were now freely flowing, and Blaine felt himself begin to tear up as well. How had he come to love someone so much in such a short period of time? It didn't seem possible, and yet, it simply was. It was _everything,_ and the thought of having it ripped from him was more than he could bear.

In a moment of near desperation, Blaine had to clench his fists to stop himself from reaching out to comfort them both. It took everything Blaine had not to grab Kurt in his arms and clutch his lover's body to his own.

"I don't know," he choked out, "but I need you to trust me that we can figure this out… Please."

At Blaine's "please," Kurt visibly straightened, as if the word had given him the strength he needed to endure. "Alright," he replied. "We'll manage somehow."

Giving in to the moment, Blaine let his tears fall as he dared to step closer to Kurt. Shielded by the darkness, he allowed his fingertips to graze the palm of Kurt's hand – just a momentary, fleeting touch, but it was enough.

"I'm proposing to Quinn tomorrow," he stated mechanically, knowing Kurt would be put out by the news, but hoping he could soften the blow somehow.

Blaine closed his eyes, feeling the cool night air on his face as he braced himself for Kurt's response. But when he opened his eyes, he found Kurt smiling through his tears.

"Oh, that's perfect," he said.

"It is?"

"Of course it is, Blaine. Once you're engaged, you'll be allowed to spend time alone with her, which means your grandfather won't be following your every move, nor will the Fabrays be as concerned with your whereabouts. You're free to do as you wish… more or less."

"But I'll still be expected to spend time with Quinn."

"Well, that's true, but not every waking moment, and as you said, we'll find a way."

Blaine smiled, humbled by his love for Kurt. "You're simply amazing," he said.

The praise seemed to lift Kurt's spirits, bringing back the lightness in his eyes that Blaine so adored. It was almost worth having to get married to a woman he didn't love just to see Kurt looking happy and free. He cherished it.

"Have you given any thought as to how you will ask her?" Kurt wondered.

"I was planning to call on her in the sitting room of their suite."

Kurt looked positively scandalized. "Oh, Blaine, you can't! Not with her parents in the next room," he said. "You have to make it special."

The laughter that escaped from Blaine's mouth did so without his consent, but it felt good nonetheless. The sound echoed off the coquina of the building and filled the orange grove with its cheerful tones.

"How is it that you always surprise me, Kurt? I never know what you will do next."

"One of my many charms, I assure you," Kurt teased.

Blaine was about to reply when Kurt held up a single finger to quiet him. He furrowed his brow, looking deep in thought as he paced a small square between the trees. Blaine watched as Kurt stopped, his face lighting up and he turned his head to look at Blaine. "You should do it in the courtyard… at sunset," Kurt said. "She'd like that."

Blaine surged forward, risking everything but not caring in the slightest as he practically shoved Kurt behind the nearest orange tree to shield them both from view. Rising up on his toes, he pressed a soft kiss to Kurt's mouth, savoring the warmth for a brief moment before he released them both from love's perilous grasp.

" _You_ are my true love, Kurt," he confessed. "Never in all of your days forget that."

"How could I," Kurt said, his words tumbling out in a breathless rush, "with you here to remind me."

"Always."

* * *

Blaine had left Kurt in the orange grove, both of them smiling, and awoke the next morning feeling a lightness in his heart that he hadn't expected when he'd set out to find Kurt the night before. Knowing he was to propose to Quinn should have made him morose and disagreeable, but instead he felt as if the door to his cage had been left open, allowing him to fly free. The cage would forever be his home, but he needn't fear it so long as he had Kurt to cling to.

He sought out Mr. Fabray after breakfast to ask to call on Quinn in the afternoon. Everything was set in motion, and now all he had to do was make it official.

Strolling through the courtyard with Quinn on his arm, he felt the weight of it all pressing down on his shoulders, and he wasn't sure he could go through with it.

"You seem out of sorts, Mr. Anderson," Quinn said, her lips quirking upward into a pleasant smile.

Blaine cleared his throat. "I think it's all the travel," he said. "It always wears me out."

Quinn nodded knowingly. "How was your trip?" she asked.

"Productive," Blaine said, keeping his expression solemn to mask the effusive things he wanted to say about enjoying Kurt's company unimpeded for five days. "The doctor said Mr. Hummel should make a full recovery."

"That's wonderful news," Quinn replied with a genuine smile.

"It is indeed."

Blaine knew he should get on with his task and propose to Quinn, but the lump in his throat gave him pause. Vaguely aware that Quinn was still talking, he tried to imagine what he would say to Kurt if he were able to propose marriage to him instead. What professions would he make? Would he go down on one knee?

And suddenly he knew. He couldn't ask Quinn in the same manner he would ask Kurt because he did not love her, but he could make a genuine offer to take care of her and be her friend and companion.

"Mother says—"

"Quinn," Blaine interrupted as he halted their steps.

"Yes, Mr. Anderson?" Even though Blaine had interrupted her, she did not look cross. Ever the lady, she was smiling brightly at him, attentive to what he had to say.

Glancing around quickly, he found a place they would be afforded a bit more privacy, and he pulled Quinn under the protection of one of the loggias. Blaine squared his shoulders and took a deep breath.

"My darling," he said, hoping the words didn't sound as forced as they felt. The taste of the endearment on his lips soured because he knew it was usually reserved for Kurt. "I have a very important question to ask you."

"Of course," Quinn said. "You know you can ask me anything."

"Of course." Blaine began to pace in front of her. "Well… that is…"

"Maybe if you sat down," Quinn offered, gesturing toward a pair of chairs behind her. Her gloved hand created a stark contrast against the dark gray of the coquina, drawing Blaine's attentions to her delicate fingers, one of which he was about to place a ring on.

It was as if all the air had been drained from his lungs with the forming of the thought. "I think I will sit down," he said.

He dropped into the chair and rested his elbows on his thighs, an undignified posture, but he needed to catch his breath.

Quinn took the seat next to him and leaned forward to see his face. "Are you alright?"

Having trouble finding his words, Blaine simply nodded as he forced himself to take several deep breaths. Finally his breathing calmed and he looked up to see Quinn's brow furrowed with worry. She tried to smile, but it resembled more of a grimace, and it made Blaine feel positively awful.

"Oh, Quinn, I'm so sorry," Blaine said, taking her hand.

The action shook her out of her concern for Blaine as she gazed wide-eyed at Blaine's hand where it rested lightly over hers. "Mr. Anderson," she said. "You're holding my hand."

Blaine followed her gaze and was also shocked to find he had taken her hand in such a forward manner, but he didn't retreat. Instead, he raised his chin and waited for her to make eye contact. "I am," he said.

Quinn blinked her eyes slowly as her gaze returned to Blaine's face. Her face was soft and inquisitive as her green eyes found Blaine's hazel ones.

Swallowing heavily, Blaine continued, "I'm sorry to be so forward, Quinn, but I wanted to ask you…"

"Yes?"

"I wanted to ask you, if you'd do me the honor of giving me your hand in marriage."

Quinn's free hand shot up to cover her mouth, and Blaine could see she was shaking.

"I have a ring," he said, fumbling for his pocket. "Here." He thrust the tiny box toward her, only to realize she still hadn't responded. "Miss Fabray, did you hear what I said?"

"I… yes," she squeaked.

"Yes, you heard me? Or yes, you'll marry me?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "Yes… a thousand times yes." Quinn bounced on her seat as she yanked off her glove and allowed Blaine to place the diamond on her finger.

"I saw this in Atlanta and knew it was meant to be yours," Blaine said, gently sliding the ring over her knuckle.

Quinn extended her arm out in front of her, allowing the gem to capture the light. It sparkled in the haze of twilight and the electric bulbs over their heads. "It's beautiful."

Blaine reached out to hold her hand yet again, a gesture that would no longer be forbidden now that they were engaged to be married.

Just over Quinn's shoulder, a flash of movement caught his eye. Squinting to make out the shape in the growing darkness, he caught a glimpse of a familiar profile.

"Kurt," he said.

"I beg your pardon," Quinn said, looking confused.

"Uh, K-Kurt…" Blaine stammered, "He, uh… helped me pick out the ring."

Quinn smiled. "What a lovely gesture," she said. "You must thank him for me."

"Of course," Blaine said, his heart sinking as he watched Kurt duck behind an archway and head back toward the hotel entrance.

Blaine only hoped that Kurt knew his heart had followed him, even if his body couldn't.


	13. Chapter 13

Kurt's heart thudded heavily in his chest as he raced through the hotel lobby and headed for the stairs. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop on Blaine, but he had been inexplicably drawn to that courtyard as if he were pulled along an invisible wire. Listening to your lover propose marriage to another was a particularly cruel kind of torture, one he wished he hadn't been privy to. What he had heard was nothing out of the ordinary, but it hurt nonetheless.

Running faster than he thought himself capable, Kurt's feet carried him back to the room he shared with his father. He needed to get as far away from that moment as he could, and right now, the fourth floor of this gigantic hotel was all he had.

Without really realizing it, he had stopped in front of the painting that reminded him of his mother, suddenly struck with a longing to tell her how his heart was breaking. He stroked the gilded frame of the painting, the grooves in the carved wood a cheap substitute for the comfort of his mother's long, silky hair.

He used to sit in her lap while she sang to him, and he would twirl its reddish-brown strands between his fingers. Kurt lived for those quiet moments, just before his mother would put him to bed, when her long hair was released from its usual upswept pin curls and hung in sweet-smelling tendrils around his face, wrapping him in its sanctity.

Often his father would linger in the doorway to Kurt's room, watching the two of them in their nightly ritual, until he'd say, "Elizabeth, it's time for bed," and then his mother would kiss Kurt sweetly on the forehead and say, "Goodnight, my angel." He'd fall asleep contented and warm and oh so loved.

Why couldn't life be that simple again?

Kurt hung his head and bit back tears, hoping the ache in his chest would subside, but the chasm only grew wider as he stood there, clutching the frame of the painting and missing his mother so much he thought it might crack his chest wide open.

When he could no longer take the pain of his own memories, he took off running again, taking the last flight of stairs two at a time as he tried to escape himself. His feet thudded loudly in the hallway, matching the racing of his heart and pounding in his head.

"Kurt?" his father said, as he burst through the door and ran past him. "Are you alright, son?"

Unable to reply, Kurt shook his head and ran for the sanctuary of his room. Tears were burning hot on his face, but he didn't care. He ached to be able to go back in time, to when he was a small child and he could collapse into his mother's arms when he felt despair. His mother would have had the right words, and if not, her soothing presence would have comforted him all the same. As he flung his body unceremoniously on the bed, he heard a knock at the door.

"Leave me be," Kurt groaned. "I don't feel like talking." The door creaked open, and Kurt rolled over to glare at his father. "I said I don't want to talk."

"I heard you," Burt said. "But I'm not letting you off that easily." The bed sagged as he sat down beside Kurt. "Now why don't you tell me what has you so upset?"

"I don't think you'd understand," Kurt said.

"Try me."

Telling his father that he was heartbroken over Blaine's engagement seemed an insurmountable task. Burt Hummel might be a man who loved his son dearly, but Kurt couldn't see him approving of such a lifestyle, and the thought of what he might say or do if he found out terrified him in a way he'd never thought possible.

Unable to say what he wanted, Kurt opted for words that were adjacent to the truth. "How am I ever supposed to measure up to what people expect of me?"

Burt laughed, as if Kurt's words were simply ridiculous to him. "Since when are you so concerned with what people think?"

Kurt sighed heavily. "Weren't you the one who said I should be careful with Blaine because of what people might think?"

"Yes, but that didn't have to do as much with what people think as you both living up to your obligations."

Kurt considered his father's words for a moment, finally understanding what he was trying to tell him. "Have people been talking?" he asked, and when Burt's forehead creased in confusion, added, "About me… and Blaine, I mean?"

Burt's weight shifted on the bed. "No," he said simply. "Now why don't you tell me what's really troubling you?"

"Lately... I don't know if it's the people here, but I feel like ever since coming here we've been immersed in a world that isn't truly ours."

"Well, that's undeniable, but I thought you were enjoying yourself here," Burt said.

"I am," Kurt replied. "It's only that… well, seeing what others have that we don't, and knowing what I'd have to do to get it. It doesn't seem fair. "

"Well, I don't think I have to tell you that life's rarely fair."

The inequalities of life had never escaped Kurt's attention. He'd been acutely aware of how perception, status and money drove everything in the silly little world he had been exposed to, but it didn't change the fact that he wanted to be a part of it rather than a mere bystander. His mother had understood that.

"I had just hoped that things had started to turn around for us," Kurt said, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve, disregarding both the childish action and the damage it would cause to the fabric. "But I miss m=Mom as much as I ever did."

Kurt felt a warm weight on his knee, and looking down he saw his father's hand was resting there. The gesture broke something in Kurt, and he began to sob openly.

"I know your mother's death was hard on you," Burt said softly, "but I thought you were moving past it a bit."

"I am," Kurt choked out between sobs. "I'm just not sure I can live up to what she would want me to be."

Burt tugged his handkerchief out of his pocket and held it out to Kurt. "You remember what I said to Mr. Barrow when he questioned your career choice?"

"Yes," Kurt said.

"I meant it, Kurt. You are my son. Nothing will change that, and your mother would have said the exact same thing to you."

Everything in his father's expression seemed to confirm his sincerity, but Kurt still couldn't confess his indiscretions. He couldn't risk being wrong about this. Biting his lip to keep from blurting it all out, Kurt dabbed at his eyes with the handkerchief. "I couldn't have asked for a better father. Truly."

"I'll remind you of that the next time you're complaining about the way I dress."

"It's only that god-awful checked suit you wear to church," Kurt said. "It's easily ten years out of fashion."

"Your mother made me that suit," Burt said, his eyes glassy with the memory. "I don't care how out of fashion it is."

"I suppose we both have our ghosts to contend with," Kurt said, running his finger over the hem of the bed sheet.

"That reminds me," Burt said, pointing to a small envelope on Kurt's nightstand. "You have another letter from Rachel. It was delivered with the afternoon mail."

"I think I'll read it tomorrow," Kurt said. "I'm so very tired."

"It might make you feel better if you read it, and at the very least, writing a reply might take your mind off your troubles." His father patted him on the knee and rose to standing. "It's going to be alright, Kurt."

Kurt nodded slowly, still feeling a bit numb from it all. "I hope you're right."

Burt gave his son a half-hearted smile, and even Kurt could see the sadness there. It was his father's nature to fix his son's problems, and it likely troubled him that he couldn't help him with this dilemma.

"I'll see you at dinner," he said, and then he was gone, leaving Kurt alone with his thoughts.

He picked up Rachel's letter and held it to his nose, inhaling deeply and hoping the familiar jasmine scent of his best friend's perfume would be a comfort to him. Instead the scent assaulted his senses with the painful realization that he could break Rachel's heart if she found out the truth about him. Kurt clutched the envelope to his chest and let his tears flow again.

There were no easy decisions for him and no clear-cut path to the right answer. He would have to navigate these waters without a compass and hope he chose the right route for his heart and for Rachel's. He couldn't even begin to think about Blaine, though. That was a thought for another time.

Glancing down at the tiny envelope in his hands, Kurt couldn't help but hope it contained some answers, a way for him to heal his heartache and stop the rushing tide of pain his affair with Blaine was sure to cause. He opened it slowly before taking a deep breath and reading Rachel's precious words.

_My Dearest Kurt,_

_I hope the doctor in Atlanta gave you good news. Mother and I have been positively sick with worry since you fell ill, but you assured me you are on the mend, so I must trust in your words. But please write soon; I cannot take the suspense and I am desperate to hear good news._

_Mother says now that you’re better we should look at setting a date for the wedding. Late spring would be lovely, but of course Aria Motta scheduled her wedding for May — she's still going around insisting everyone call her Sugar, can you imagine? — so it looks like we’ll be stuck with summer. Although, a mid-summer affair would mean we’d likely be the only wedding and would get more gifts. I suppose that’s a selfish reason, but I know you’ll understand, my darling. You always know how to make the best out of any situation._

_I will continue to write you until I hear from you, but please write soon. I miss you ever so much._

_Yours in love and affection,  
Rachel_

Not finding the respite he had hoped for, Kurt balled up the letter and tossed it into the corner. Of course Rachel would want to have a definite wedding date, but Kurt wasn't prepared for the finality of it. With both he and Blaine making plans for their respective futures, everything seemed more urgent, and unfortunately, more real.

He would simply have to make the best of what he'd been given, and if Blaine could shield his heart for Quinn's sake, Kurt could certainly do the same for Rachel. Retrieving a sheet of paper and pencil from his drawing supplies, Kurt began his letter to Rachel.

_Dear Rachel,_

_I'm sorry I didn't write sooner. I hope you'll forgive me for neglecting you. The doctor says I should make a full and speedy recovery, and I'm already feeling more like myself after my trip. Mr. Anderson was kind enough to cover my expenses for the duration, so I was able to do some sightseeing and also buy you a gift._

_I think a mid-summer wedding sounds lovely; we will make the best of it. One thing being here has taught me is how frequently we must do things we don't really have the desire to – but I assure you Miss Motta will be green with envy when she sees the gown I will design for you. As soon as I return to New York, we'll set to work; no bride shall be lovelier._

_Oh, I nearly forgot - I think Father may be courting a widow named Mrs. Hudson who is staying at the Ponce as well. With any luck, we may have two weddings to plan for._

_Yours,  
Kurt_

* * *

Later at dinner, Kurt's eyes kept falling on the Fabrays' table where Blaine was seated. Quinn's parents were positively beaming at him — no doubt they had already been informed of the good news, and were delightedly planning their daughter's nuptials. Quinn looked even more poised than usual, as if she had relaxed into her role at Blaine's side and allowed herself to be anchored by his presence. Kurt felt his insides burn hot with jealousy, bright blue flames that licked at his heart and burned his soul with its intensity. Knowing that Blaine was truly his did nothing to comfort him. It was as if their trip to Atlanta had never occurred and they were back to that night of the wedding, and Kurt felt shoved aside.

He knew it wasn't true, but nothing could quench that fire, not even his father's knee nudging him below the table.

"Everything alright, Kurt?" he asked.

Startled from his momentary daze, Kurt shook his head and said, "I'm not feeling very well."

"Oh, goodness," Mrs. Barrow said. "It's not the fever again is it?"

"No," Kurt said. "I think I'm just tired from all the travel."

"You should have some tea," she added, flicking her wrist with a pointed finger to grab the waiter's attention.

"Mrs. Barrow, thank you, but I think I'll just head to my room," Kurt pleaded.

"Nonsense," she said, resting a gloved hand on his forearm. "The tea will make you feel better."

Kurt sighed and poked at his salad with the tines of his fork, resolutely trying not to look at the Fabrays' table, but it was to no avail. His eyes skittered upward only to be met with the brilliant hazel of Blaine's eyes from across the room. Kurt's fork fell to the plate with a clatter, and a tomato landed in his lap. As he fumbled to retrieve it, Mr. Barrow snorted, and two waiters appeared quickly to give him a new napkin and ask if he needed any assistance.

When he glanced up again, Blaine was no longer looking his way, but Kurt could see he was hiding a smirk behind his hand, even as he appeared to be listening to whatever Mr. Fabray was saying. The sight of Blaine's momentary lapse in composure lifted Kurt's spirits somewhat — a blessed moment of affection in an otherwise horrid evening. He watched Blaine from across the dining room for the remainder of the meal, completely disinterested in the roasted duck Mrs. Barrow raved about or the sweet cherry tart they had for dessert, until his father announced he was retiring to the smoking room for a cigar and brandy.

"I'll go with you," Kurt said, silently hoping Blaine would choose to do the same.

* * *

Burt had retired for the evening by the time Blaine made an appearance in the smoking room, his tie loosened and a cigarette clenched between his teeth. Kurt pretended not to notice him enter the room, but failing to notice Blaine's presence was like failing to notice an explosion of fireworks. Warmth radiated from him like brightly colored bursts of light that reached out and kissed Kurt's skin with its fire.

Still he kept his head lowered, and his gaze fixed on the newspaper in his hands, until he saw two perfectly shined shoes in his periphery, punctuated by a quiet, "Ahem."

Drawing his eyes slowly upward, Kurt was met with the most seductive of smiles, and he wondered if it was possible to fall more in love with each passing moment — every time he looked at Blaine, he felt more for the man than he had the moment before.

"I thought I might find you here," Blaine said.

"Where else would I be?" Kurt's words were clipped and sounded far angrier than he felt.

Blaine evidently chose to ignore it. "I don't know," he teased. "Perhaps in the courtyard eavesdropping on a marriage proposal."

"It was an accident!" Kurt hissed through clenched teeth.

"Easy there. I'm not upset; I just didn't expect to see you." Blaine glanced around the room. About a half dozen men were still chatting or playing cards. "Can we go for a walk?"

Kurt nodded and rose slowly, leaving his newspaper on the chair as he followed Blaine toward the hotel lobby.

They walked in silence for a while, Kurt searching for the words he wanted to say. He suspected Blaine was doing the same, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, head hanging as he scuffed his feet along the marble tiles.

"Rachel and I have settled on a mid-summer wedding," Kurt said finally. "I hope you and Quinn can make it."

Blaine's face is unreadable for a moment before breaking into a wide grin. "That's wonderful," he said.

"You're happy for me?" Kurt asked, the sick, jealous feeling returning to unsettle his stomach.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" Blaine said with a shrug.

Kurt stopped abruptly. "You know I don't want to marry Rachel," he whispered. "Not really."

"Just as you know I don't want to marry Quinn," Blaine said pointedly. He gently gripped Kurt by both shoulders. "We've been over this. What's gotten into you?"

Kurt sighed. "I guess it just hit me a little harder than I expected… Seeing you two together like that." Kurt paused and took a steadying breath. "It should have been me."

Blaine's golden eyes seemed to soften, growing even brighter as Kurt watched, the electric lights of the lobby reflecting their luminous color and magnifying it tenfold.

"It _should_ have been you," Blaine said. "And if it were allowed, it would have been. I hope you know that."

Kurt instinctively reached out to touch Blaine, connect with him in some way, but then he remembered where they were and his hand fluttered between them for a moment before settling at his side. Blaine's gaze followed the movement, and when his eyes made contact with Kurt's again, the longing was written plainly for Kurt to see.

They both knew their place, though: standing on the edge of a precipice, and they were dangerously close to losing their balance and careening down into oblivion. If they weren't careful, everything they had fought for and tried to conceal would be laid bare, and it would all be over.

"I don't suppose we could run away together," Kurt said, sighing and tipping his head back to stare at the domed ceiling of the rotunda.

"It wouldn't be right," Blaine said, "leaving Rachel and Quinn to the wolves like that. The gossip would ruin them."

"I know," Kurt said, hanging his head in defeat. "Doesn't mean I don't fantasize about it from time to time."

Blaine leaned in as closely as he could under the circumstances and whispered, "Want to know a secret?"

Kurt nodded slowly, trying not to let his eyes linger too long on Blaine's perfectly lush mouth, or the way his hair was curling at his temples where it was breaking free of the pomade. Everything about him was begging for Kurt's touch, a tortuous barrage of sentiment Kurt could barely stand as Blaine's whiskey-scented breath tickled his ear.

"I think about it all the time," Blaine said finally. "Running away with you — somewhere far away from all this." He looked up and gestured around them.

"Where?"

"Paris," Blaine said, the response coming so quickly, it left no doubt in Kurt's mind that he had given it ample thought.

"Why Paris?"

"I've heard things are different there. The people are more accepting." Blaine paused, and held Kurt's gaze for a moment. "And there's a dressmaker there who is quickly becoming the trend-setter for the entire globe."

"Charles Worth," Kurt whispered.

"You've heard of him."

He'd of course heard of the House of Worth. The dressmaker was indeed the rising star of French fashion and had even been called on to create looks for the famous actress Sarah Bernhardt. Kurt couldn't imagine a better way to develop his talents than to work with the most progressive dressmaker in the world. Worth had revolutionized women's fashion, removing unnecessary details and frills, while positively flattering the woman's shape. Kurt had worked on similar designs for years for Rachel and was eager to learn more.

"I can't even imagine such a life," Kurt said. "It all sounds so unbelievably perfect… it's hardly a realistic desire."

"You could do it if you wanted," Blaine said, his honeyed eyes wide in their sincerity. "I know you, Kurt. You'd set Paris aflame."

Staring into Blaine's gorgeous eyes and seeing the adoration there, Kurt fought every instinct he had to stop himself from taking Blaine in his arms and kissing him right where they stood. His eyes searched Blaine's face for answers, but he found the same troubled expression reflected back at him that he'd seen on his own face countless times as of late. They were both trapped in their own cages, desperately trying to break free, and settling for a few hours a day in each other's company, rather than the exquisite bliss of forever.

"But alas, I'm set to marry Rachel," he said, settling for a realistic point of view, rather than the more fantastical one. "She'd never leave her mother or her friends behind. And it's not as if I could afford to move my family across the ocean. I'd be living as a pauper until I could find suitable employment."

"I hate to hear you talk like that," Blaine said, his fingers twitching upward as if he wanted to grasp Kurt's hand in his own.

"It's the truth," Kurt said, feeling himself quite resigned to their fate. "You know it is. We have to stop living in a dream world and accept our existence for what it is. Either we meet our obligations or leave our families in disgrace, and I think we both know which option we shall choose."

"Doesn't mean we have to stop dreaming, Kurt."

Blaine's face was a stormy ocean of emotion and Kurt's heart ached for them both. Blaine was right: not dreaming seemed more depressingly final than conceding to the life they were committed to.

"I promised you I wouldn't," Kurt said. "And I won't." He paused, hoping Blaine would see the absolute determination he was feeling. "But only if you do the same. I refuse to watch you give up on everything else simply because you want to protect your family's reputation."

"Kurt…"

"I mean it, Blaine. You promise me right now or I tell your grandfather everything."

Blaine's stoic expression broke as he burst into unfettered laughter. "You wouldn't dare."

Kurt held his ground for a few moments before Blaine's glee became too infectious to avoid. He felt his lips spread into a wide grin as he said, "I can be very bold when I need to be, Blaine Anderson. Don't test me."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Blaine said, growing suddenly more serious. "I have no doubt you would do what you needed to in order to ensure my happiness."

"As you would mine."

"Forever and always," Blaine said. "I promise."

* * *

Dr. Anderson and his new bride hosted a reception in their home following their return from their honeymoon. It seemed as if the entire town, including the society guests from all of Flagler's hotels, were planning on being there. The Barrows had spoken of little else since it was announced, leaving Kurt with no doubt that he and his father had been intentionally left off the guest list.

All the same, Kurt found himself standing in the parlor of the palatial home on a mild Saturday evening, surrounded by garish floral arrangements and the most decadent display of food he'd ever seen. The table on which the delicacies were laid was practically groaning under the weight off all the food: fried oysters, salads, sandwiches, cakes and other confections. And the largest cut glass punch bowl Kurt had ever seen was filled to the brim with a delicious nectar that reminded Kurt of summers spent making daisy chains with Rachel in the park.

The flowers were equally ostentatious, with the bannister and entryway positively dripping in white hyacinth. The scent assaulted Kurt's senses the moment he had entered and followed him through every room on the first floor despite the clusters of roses decorating the parlors. He could scarcely move for all the servants bustling about offering the guests drinks and clearing dishes, but he had one distinct goal in mind: to find Blaine and make his presence known.

When he finally spotted him, regal in the glow of shaded lamps that shed their softened light over him like a halo, Kurt had no idea why he'd come. His feet suddenly leaden in his leather shoes, Kurt froze on the spot, unable to approach his lover for fear of puncturing the delicate bubble of the illusion they'd worked so hard to construct around them.

Sitting next to Blaine on the small velvet-covered settee was Quinn, her hands gloved, one holding a small cup of punch and the other resting gracefully in her lap, effectively hiding the diamond that Kurt now knew decorated her finger. His insides burned hot with jealousy once more, but he fought back the tide of emotion, clenching his hands into fists at his side as he forced himself to breathe.

Kurt watched as Quinn leaned over to whisper in Blaine's ear. Whatever she had said, Blaine responded with a soft smile and a nod of his head as he rose and took her empty cup with him. Kurt was about to follow him when he heard Dr. Anderson's voice booming from the hall as Blaine froze in the doorway.

"What is that boy doing here?"

Blaine's head whipped around, his gaze immediately landing on Kurt, a flicker of a smile forming on his lips before he turned to face his grandfather, shoulders back and head held high.

"He's my guest," Blaine said, his carriage not wavering in the slightest as his grandfather gripped him by the arm.

"We need to have this conversation in private," the old man hissed.

Kurt felt his knees begin to buckle, the air having been pushed from his lungs at the look of abject terror in Blaine's eyes as the two disappeared around a corner.

Glancing frantically around the room for a way out, Kurt's eyes landed on a shocked and pale-looking Quinn, her brow furrowed in confusion as she glanced from the doorway to Kurt and back again.

Without thinking, Kurt crossed the room to her and bowed in greeting. "Miss Fabray, wonderful to see you again."

"Mr. Hummel, what a pleasant surprise." Quinn smiled, but her distracted gaze still fell over Kurt's shoulder as she craned her neck in the direction Dr. Anderson had dragged Blaine. Looking defeated, she returned her gaze to Kurt. "It's a lovely party, isn't it?"

"No need for small talk, Miss Fabray. I think we're past that," Kurt replied with a smile. Gesturing to the seat Blaine had just vacated, he asked, "May I?"

Quinn nodded, a grateful smile on her face. Even though he had Quinn's permission, he sat a little farther from her than her fiancé had, but inclined his shoulders toward her so they could speak privately. "Best wishes on your engagement," he whispered.

Quinn's face broke into an exuberant smile. "Oh, thank you," she said, "especially for your help with the ring. It's lovely."

Kurt saw her fingering the bauble beneath her gloves as her gaze fluttered downward to it. She looked genuinely happy to be betrothed to Blaine, and Kurt felt his stomach churn. She did nothing to deserve his ire, and he did genuinely like her. It wasn't her fault she was caught in the middle of a doomed love affair, nor was it her doing that she had become a pawn. How could it be when it was part of a game she scarcely knew she was playing?

"It was my pleasure," Kurt said sincerely.

"Mr. Anderson tells me you are to be married this summer," Quinn said. "You must be thrilled that it's happening soon."

"Thrilled doesn't really express what I'm feeling," Kurt said. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and stroked the cool metal of his cigarette case as if he could draw strength from its unyielding surface.

"I know exactly what you mean," Quinn replied. "I haven't been able to stop smiling since Blaine proposed."

"I can imagine," Kurt said, feeling a wistful pang of longing course through him. "Tell me, have you given any thought to your wedding gown?"

"Oh, only since I was a little girl," Quinn mused.

"You're going to make a beautiful bride," Kurt said. He could just see her in a gorgeous silk frock, adorned with flowers and just enough frills to draw attention to her curves, but not enough to overpower her petite frame. He could picture it plain as day and actually longed to design something for her – hints of pink and green scattered among the soft creamy off white of the dress. She'd look positively stunning.

"That's quite kind of you to say," she said, bowing her head in a perfect display of feminine submission that revealed her extensive grooming for society's every dictate of a woman's behavior. Perhaps she was more trapped than he or Blaine ever would be. His heart broke for her.

"I mean it," he said. "Although if you tell my Rachel that I said so, I'll deny it vehemently."

"Of course," Quinn said with a conspiratorial wink and bright smile.

"I see you two are getting along quite nicely." Blaine had approached from behind Kurt, and his voice startled him enough that Kurt jumped visibly.

"Mr. Hummel and I were just discussing our wedding preparations," she said. "It's nice to have someone to talk to besides Mother. I'm having a devil of a time keeping it to myself until the formal announcement."

"When will that be?" Kurt asked, directing the question at Blaine rather than Quinn.

"Grandfather wants me to announce it at the Alicia Hospital benefit — the night of the ball," Blaine said, shaking his head as he pulled out a cigarette to light it. "I don't see why we have to make it such a spectacle."

"Oh, darling," Quinn said, causing Kurt to flinch at the endearment. "Your grandfather is just overcome with joy at the news. Of course he'd want to show us off a bit." She turned to Kurt and smiled. "Blaine is so shy about the whole thing. I had to practically drag him to talk to my parents after he proposed."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. Blaine was the least shy person he knew, and he wondered what other misconceptions Quinn was operating under. Blaine's flustered reaction confirmed Kurt's suspicions that he was concealing a lot of himself from his fiancée, and something about that thought made him smile.

"Miss Fabray makes an excellent point," he said. "I'm sure your grandfather has only the best intentions."

"Kurt, might I speak with you in private?" Blaine asked abruptly. Without waiting for Kurt's answer, he turned to Quinn and continued, "Would you excuse us for a moment, Quinn? I need to discuss a business matter with Mr. Hummel."

"Of course," she said with a smile. "I can go chat with Violet while you boys tend to things."

Kurt couldn't be sure, but he could have sworn he saw a flicker of a smirk on Quinn's face. The thought was fleeting, however, because his curiosity over Blaine's behavior had him distracted.

"Is something wrong?" he asked in a low voice.

Blaine glanced frantically about as if he were worried he was being watched. If he hadn't looked so utterly worried, it might have been laughable, the panicked look on his face as he ushered Kurt through the butler's pantry to the kitchen and out the servants' entrance. When they were alone, he turned to face Kurt and something on his face made Kurt's stomach flutter in nervous anticipation.

"Something _is_ wrong," Kurt said. "Blaine, what is it? If you don't tell me soon, I may actually faint."

Blaine looked at war with himself, his brow furrowed and his eyes watery. Kurt decided to throw caution to the wind and reached out to rest a comforting hand on Blaine's shoulder. When Blaine abruptly shrugged it off, Kurt's heart broke in two.

"My grandfather threatened to rewrite the terms of my trust," Blaine spat. "If I continue to have any kind of relationship with you, I get nothing. _Quinn_ will have nothing."

Kurt couldn't help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. "Surely he didn't mean—"

"Kurt, this is serious. He meant every word. I'm to have no more contact with you or the money I was set to inherit upon my marriage will be divided amongst my cousins."

"What about Quinn's dowry?"

"I'm fairly certain my grandfather has already discussed that with Russell Fabray." He began to pace back and forth almost violently, his shoes turning up billowy clouds of sand in his wake.

Kurt's brain couldn't begin to process any of it. He could only focus on the gentle breeze as it brushed his cheek and the sound of the party drifting out of the open windows of Markland. The cheery voices and gentle lilt of the music mocked his despair. He felt sick.

"Does this mean I won't see you again?" Kurt asked, swallowing heavily to fight back the extra saliva that now flooded his mouth. Struggling to maintain his footing, he dared a glance at Blaine's face and found the same stricken look he knew made up his own expression. "Is this it?"

"I don't want it to be," Blaine said, choking out the words as if each one were heavier than the last.

"Neither do I." Kurt felt a solitary tear roll down his own cheek, but he refused to acknowledge it. "What shall we do?"

"I haven't a clue," Blaine said, "but this isn't the end. I promise you."

Kurt wanted to believe him, but his heart ached nonetheless.


	14. Chapter 14

**** March 1895 ****

With his grandfather's warning fresh in his mind, Blaine concealed his relationship with Kurt behind the pretense of spending time with Quinn, always insisting that the time he spent away from Markland was time spent in the company of his fiancée. Dr. Anderson never questioned it — not outwardly, at least — and he seemed to be preoccupied by his fledgling marriage as Mary set about redecorating the parlors. Just to keep up appearances, Blaine continued to be seen in public with Quinn as often as he could before stealing away to see Kurt.

Somehow Blaine knew it wouldn't last forever, but he and Kurt never spoke of it, instead choosing to lose themselves to the moments they could have.

Dr. Anderson planned to announce Blaine's engagement the night of the hospital benefit ball, when all of the city's well-to-do would be present. Blaine was looking forward to it because he would no longer have to worry so much about the scrutiny of others and could find more moments to spend alone with Quinn, which translated to more time with Kurt.

The ball had been planned to rival the grandest balls of New York and was to be preceded by a carnival at the Alcazar's Casino. Even the men spoke of nothing else in the days leading up to the event – speculation about the "grand spectacle" that was being advertised around town was all anyone would talk about. Kurt, for his part, said he was most excited to see the new fashions sure to be on display.

Further aggrandizing the festivities, Ohio's Governor, William McKinley, had arrived in town and was to be the guest of honor at the ball.

By the time the benefit arrived in mid March, the weather had begun to make its transition to warmer temperatures. During the day, the hotel guests spent more time outside, rather than in their much warmer rooms.

On a Friday afternoon, Blaine and Quinn sat in the courtyard looking at the stereoscope Quinn had bought as a souvenir. They took turns looking through the view finder and admiring the hand-tinted photos that seemed to leap off the paper they were printed on when viewed through the lenses of the device. Quinn was utterly fascinated.

"How do they think of such things?" she exclaimed as she held the stereoscope up to her face. The photo she was looking at was a panoramic image of all three sections of the Ponce's parlor, the depth of the room exaggerating the three-dimensional quality given to it by the stereoscope.

"One of the many modern wonders," Blaine said. "I heard the elder Mr. Hummel is working on a self-propelled vehicle that will run without the aid of a horse."

"It truly is a wonder," Quinn said, "the age we live in. I can't wait to have children so I can share all of it with them."

Blaine shuddered at the thought, but forced a smile and asked, "How many children did you want? I suppose it's something we should discuss."

"Oh, I'd be happy with one," she said, smiling broadly at him, "but I'll have as many as God blesses me with."

It felt like a practiced answer, but Blaine didn't press for more, content to simply nod his agreement as he switched out the photo in the stereoscope — this one a simple image of the pool at the Hotel Alcazar. It reminded him of the night he and Kurt had snuck in; how the blue-green glow of the spring water reflected in Kurt's eyes deepened their already stunning hue. As long as he lived, Blaine would never forget that night. It was as if he had discovered another depth to his person, a secret passage of desire that once it had been unlocked could never be concealed again. Glancing sideways at Quinn, Blaine wondered if he could even attempt to conceal his true feelings for Kurt, when the mere thought of him caused his heart to race and his skin to turn to gooseflesh under his many layers. His skin practically burned like fire at just the memory of their first kiss amid the steam of the baths. Was that something he could conceal from a woman who was to become his wife? Was that even possible?

Handing the stereoscope over to Quinn, he allowed himself to change the subject. "Do you have a gown for the ball yet?"

"Of course I do," she said, holding the device up to her face. "It's tomorrow night, silly."

"Right. Of course. How stupid of me."

Blaine smiled and picked at edge of one of the photographs, allowing his mind to wander to plans of stealing away to see Kurt after the ball ended. He could almost envision Kurt with a towel slung low about his hips, a faint sheen of perspiration illuminating his fair skin as Blaine decorated his body in kisses.

"Are you warm?" Quinn asked, pulling him from his fantasy.

"Pardon?"

"You're fanning yourself with that photo," Quinn said, gesturing to Blaine's right hand. "In fact, you've practically ruined it."

He glanced down at the now mangled photo in his hands, incredulous at how deep in thought he had been. "I'm terribly sorry. I can replace it."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," she said. "It's only a photograph. Think nothing of it." Quinn's smile was genuine and should have reassured him, but Blaine felt just as displaced as ever, at least ever since he had met Kurt.

"How would you feel about getting married sooner rather than later?" Blaine asked suddenly, the beginnings of an idea forming in his mind.

Quinn tilted her head, furrowing her brow as she studied Blaine's face. "Well, that's something we'd have to discuss with my parents, but I'm not opposed."

Something in her gaze told Blaine she was curious about his reasons for asking such a question, but he tried not to concern himself with trying to figure out why. His mind was preoccupied with the realization that if he and Quinn married, he would no longer need to be worried about his grandfather's threats of reworking the terms of his trust.

"It doesn't have to be right away," Blaine hedged, "but I thought it might be nice to marry this summer before it's too cold to take a proper honeymoon."

"Of course," Quinn said.

Blaine returned his attentions to the stereoscope, but he could still feel Quinn's eyes on him. He might have to explain himself better, but first he needed to speak to Kurt.

* * *

The ballroom at the Alcazar was strung with dozens of paper lanterns, and brightly colored bunting adorned the balconies overlooking the pool, in which was displayed an ornate Venetian style gondola. Carnival-style games lined the outer edges of the entire Casino complex; for 25 cents a try, guests could win various trinkets and toys. It was all very festive and celebratory, but Blaine was concerned with only one thing: finding Kurt.

Quinn was taken with it all, commenting on the brightly colored gowns and pulling Blaine to a stop at every booth they passed.

Craning his neck every time her attention was averted, Blaine continued to let his eyes rove the room for Kurt. He had almost given up seeing him before the ball when Blaine spotted his slender form leaning casually against a pillar, listening to the band playing a rag. It was a fairly new style of music, one which Blaine found himself intrigued by whenever he visited the Negro saloons in New York, but seeing Kurt take it in with a look of near reverence on his face made him love it all the more.

Kurt tapped his foot along to the syncopated rhythm of the music as his fingers danced along his crossed arms in time with the melody.

"It's addictive, isn't it?" Blaine asked, approaching Kurt from behind and leaning in to speak softly into his right ear.

Kurt startled but did not turn around, instead nodding his head and craning his neck to chance a sidelong glance at Blaine. "I just saw your grandfather," he said.

"He can hardly chastise me for saying a quick hello in a public place," Blaine reasoned.

Turning to face Blaine, Kurt's face broke out into a wide grin. "Still bucking tradition I see," he said, nodding to where Blaine had left Quinn by a curious mechanical horse racing game being run by Mrs. Flagler. "You've left your fiancée all alone."

"She'll be alright for a moment," Blaine replied, without sparing a glance in her direction. "I just wanted to make sure you were still planning on coming to the ball."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Good," Blaine said, smiling. "I have plans for us."

Kurt raised an eyebrow in intrigue, but didn't press for further information.

Seeing his grandfather's stern gaze over Kurt's shoulder, Blaine decided it was best if he returned to Quinn's side, but let his hand casually brush against Kurt's back as he said, "I'll see you soon."

As he walked away, he could have sworn he heard Kurt sigh before he began humming along to the music. His heart skipped a beat knowing that they would soon be alone again. He might be Quinn's at the ball, but the remainder of the evening would belong to Kurt.

Quinn smiled at him as he approached, but her nostrils flared as she inhaled, giving away her annoyance at having been left unescorted.

"I'm sorry to leave you alone, my darling," he said brightly. "I wanted to say a quick hello to Mr. Hummel. I hope you weren't bored."

"Not at all," she said through a tight smile. "I was chatting with Mrs. Lowry. Her daughter just had her third child – a little boy."

"That's wonderful," Blaine said, not at all interested in the goings-on of the hotel guests. He remained distracted for the duration of the evening, until they all made their way back to the Ponce for the ball.

* * *

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the governor of the great state of Ohio and, if he plays his cards right, candidate for President of these great United States… the Honorable Mr. William McKinley."

The ballroom erupted into applause as a broadly built man about Blaine's height took to the stage, his pomaded hair and clean-shaven face making him look younger than he likely was. His dark suit and bow tie were contrasted by the brighter colors of the ladies' silk dresses and the fragrant sprays of flowers decorating the stage.

His voice rang out above the murmur of the crowd — authoritative, but not particularly booming or deep — as he said, "Hello, fellow guests of Mr. Flagler's fine hotel. I'm so happy to be with you tonight as guest of honor at the eighth annual Charity Ball and celebration to benefit the Alicia Hospital. It is with great pleasure that I announce the first dance of the evening." He gestured to the orchestra before returning his attention to the crowd. "Ladies, please find a gentleman to lead you in a polonaise." A jubilant cry sounded from the ladies to Blaine's right as Governor McKinley paused for effect. "That's right," he said. "It's to be a ladies' choice."

Another eruption of excited chatter broke out as the youngest of the women in attendance began flitting about to find dance partners. Blaine nodded to Quinn who had just tapped his arm, noting that Kurt was claimed once again by Violet Atwater. His heart twinged a bit, but of course he knew that it was just a dance. Later he and Kurt would be able to share the most precious of moments alone and would need no music to lead them in their movements. He smiled to himself at the thought as he took Quinn's hand and led her to the dance floor.

His eyes caught Kurt's almost immediately, a hint of mischief sparkling in his blue-green irises that caught Blaine's attention even from twenty feet away. Kurt returned his gaze to Violet and bowed, before glancing again in Blaine's direction.

In the heat of their fervent glances, the dance took on a seductive quality that it didn't normally possess. A subtle twitch of desire about Kurt's mouth and an expertly arched eyebrow seemed practically carnal and yet wholly innocent at the same time, leaving Blaine feeling as if his body were being played like a finely tuned instrument..

Blaine's heart raced as he led Quinn around the dance floor, his eyes following Kurt as they mirrored each other's movements from twenty feet away. As ever, Kurt's back was straight, his head held high. His dance partner gazed adoringly up at him, but Kurt was oblivious to her attention. Whether it was willful or purely coincidental, Blaine couldn't say. Not that it mattered; the man who was the object of Violet Atwater's obvious admiration would be in Blaine's arms in short order, and if Blaine had his way, would remain there until sunrise.

When the dance caused them to pass close to one another, Blaine felt Kurt's hand graze his own, sending a rush of heat through his body as his fingertips tingled with the lingering ghost of Kurt's touch.

He stumbled through a few of the steps as he tried to gain his composure, and could have sworn he saw Kurt bite back a laugh as he turned away and led Violet in the opposite direction.

"Ow," Quinn squeaked in a rare moment of agitation when Blaine stepped on her foot. "Blaine, you're messing up all the steps. Is something wrong?"

"What? No… I'm sorry, darling," he said, his gaze shifting to Quinn's green eyes as he found his footing once more. "I think I'm nervous about the announcement… that's all."

Her eyes narrowed as she tilted her head to take in Blaine's bewildered expression. "Are you sure that's all?" she asked.

"Quite certain," Blaine said, hoping the smile he forced his mouth to make was believable. Quinn's scrutiny made him exceedingly uncomfortable, leaving him wishing the dance would end soon.

Across the room, Blaine could see that Kurt was watching him intently, concern furrowing his well-defined brow.

"They would make a handsome couple, don't you think?" Quinn asked.

"What?"

"Kurt and Violet," Quinn said, nodding in their direction. "It's too bad he's already engaged. He's quite a catch… Wouldn't you agree?"

Blaine's palms suddenly felt clammy and he found himself thankful that Quinn was wearing gloves. "Uh, yes… of course. Kurt's… he's… Miss Berry is quite lucky."

"She's not the only one," Quinn said. She didn't break her concentration and her dance steps never faltered, but Blaine noticed a tiny smirk teasing the corner of her delicate mouth.

Blaine opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but the music was ending and applause broke out around them. He stared open-mouthed at Quinn as she clapped politely for the orchestra and saw her eyes widen when Blaine's grandfather took the stage.

"Oh my goodness," she gasped as her hand fluttered up to cover her now trembling mouth. "It's time."

Blaine swallowed heavily around a dry tongue, his eyes scanning the room for a glimpse of Kurt. For a moment, Blaine wondered if he'd left altogether, unable to stomach the evening's big announcement, but then there he was, standing next to his father and Mrs. Hudson, attention drawn to the stage as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

But Blaine's heart sank as his eyes landed on Kurt's hands; his fingers contorted almost unnaturally as he pulled and pressed at his own flesh — his own patented nervous habit. It hurt to see Kurt in distress and know that he was the cause, at least in part.

The contrast of Quinn's excitement was surreal. There could not have been two more different reactions to the same event. Blaine himself was unsure what he was feeling, though — dread, resignation, relief. None of it felt right. And yet it was inevitable. The only saving grace was his genuine fondness for Quinn and the knowledge that an engagement would save him some of the harsh scrutiny that had befallen him of late.

Dr. Anderson cleared his throat and the crowd began to grow quiet. Kurt's eyes quickly caught Blaine's before he gave him a strained smile and then quickly turned away. Begrudgingly, Blaine returned his attention to the front of the room where his grandfather was now beaming, drink in hand.

"First of all, I want to thank Mrs. Flagler — and the ladies of St. Augustine — for planning such a wonderful benefit and ball. You've outdone yourself again." He raised his glass in Mrs. Flagler's direction as the room began to applaud her. "The hospital is grateful to have you serving it and using your many talents to help us raise money for its continued success." He paused again for a second round of applause, and when it died down, he leveled his blue eyes on Blaine.

"I have an announcement of a personal nature to make as well, if you'll indulge me," he said, beaming. "As many of you know, my grandson Blaine has been staying with me since the start of the season, and he's been seen frequently in the company of the daughter of a dear friend of mine, Miss Lucy Fabray." An excited murmur began to stir as the pieces fell into place. "Well, it will come as no surprise then, that Blaine has asked Miss Fabray to marry him, and she, God help her, has said yes."

An excited cacophony of whooping and cheering broke out immediately, and Blaine felt several firm claps on his shoulder as Quinn was whisked away in a frenzy of her friends. Blaine couldn't help but get caught up in it, accepting a cigar from a red-haired man to his left and a glass of whiskey from an older gentleman to his right. He was receiving raucous congratulations all around and could just make out the sound of the orchestra playing a cheery waltz beneath the commotion when he caught a glimpse of Kurt's retreating form, shoulders slouched as he exited the ballroom and headed for the front gates.

In a split-second decision that he did not really think through, Blaine set off after him, only vaguely aware that as guest of honor he would be missed from his own engagement party. He didn't care. His only concern was to make sure Kurt was alright.

Somehow he knew exactly where Kurt was headed, and he set off in the direction of the Alcazar's Casino. It was still unlocked from the bazaar earlier in the evening and he found his way quickly to the back of the complex.

His shoes slipped a little on the freshly polished marble leading toward the baths, causing him to stumble, but Blaine somehow managed to stay on his feet. When he found Kurt, sitting on the edge of one of the marble benches in the empty steam room, his head in his hands, Blaine felt his breath catch in his throat. He couldn't imagine what Kurt was feeling, but his lover's demeanor told him everything he needed to know. He crossed the room in three long strides, and as he approached, Kurt glanced up. Without saying a word, Blaine leaned forward as Kurt wrapped his arms around Blaine's waist and they both began to cry.

"I thought I could do it," Kurt said, his sobs getting lost in the fabric of Blaine's waistcoat. "I really did."

"Shh, it's okay, my darling. I know…. I know." Blaine stroked his hair soothingly as his own tears soaked his cheeks.

"I didn't want to ruin it for you," Kurt said. "You should get back to Quinn. You'll be missed."

"Just let me hold you for a moment," Blaine replied, his words coming out strained and throaty.

He felt Kurt's arms tighten around him and he squeezed back with every ounce of strength he had, Kurt's soft hair tickling Blaine's chin where it rested on the crown of his head. When Kurt finally pulled back, Blaine lowered his gaze to see Kurt's watery, red-rimmed eyes gazing up at him.

"I love you," Kurt said.

"I love you too," Blaine replied, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of Kurt's nose before nudging his way lower and brushing their lips together.

Kurt breathed a soft sigh that Blaine felt all the way to his toes. It was as if every time they kissed he could finally breathe again; it was a comfort he'd never known before and doubted he would ever find again.

Their tongues tangled together the way vines cling to brick, desperately holding steady against everything the universe could do to try to separate them. Kurt's hands snaked under Blaine's jacket, the warmth of his touch radiating through the soft silk of his waistcoat and thin cotton of his shirt until it reached his skin, magnifying his own body heat back to him.

"I need you to touch me," Kurt said, his lips still mostly in contact with Blaine's. "In case we don't get another chance."

"Kurt, don't say that. We'll find a way."

"Don't make promises," Kurt begged. "Just kiss me… make me feel something. I need it… I need you."

Blaine surged forward, sending them both sprawling along the cold marble bench. His knee struck the hard surface, causing him to wince but not injuring him enough to deter him from his goal.

"Are you alright?" Kurt asked, as he stifled a laugh behind his hand.

"Yes, I'm fine," Blaine said, rubbing his kneecap as he straddled Kurt's waist. "Now, where were we?"

Without a word, Kurt pulled him down and pressed their lips together. There was an urgency to their movements, but also a gentle languor, as if they needed the moment to last. Knowing very well that what Kurt feared might come to pass, Blaine wanted to savor every second of their encounter. If by some cruel twist of fate, this was to be their last time together, he wanted to cherish it.

His fingers fumbled as he tried to unfasten Kurt's waistcoat, hands sliding over the smooth silk and catching on the tiny buttons. It felt like forever until he was able to touch bare skin, warm and soft beneath his palms. Kurt arched up into Blaine's touch as if he too couldn't bear the scant inches of space between them.

Somehow Blaine managed to undress them both without granting their bodies the pleasure of the cool air on their skin, instead keeping their limbs entwined and their torsos flush as he stripped them down.

Soon the taste of Kurt's skin on Blaine's tongue was reminding him of the briny flavor of the sea; the curve of his mouth lapping at each rolling wave of Kurt's breath. The rich scent of tobacco lingered, even with their clothes gone, but underneath that Blaine caught the hint of something vaguely floral haunting Kurt's skin. He buried his nose in Kurt's neck and inhaled, working hard to commit that particular combination of smells to memory.

As the rhythm of their movements began to match up and become more purposeful, Kurt's eyes drifted closed, as if he too were drunk on the sensory pleasures of their love. When his eyes opened again, they pierced Blaine's heart, bluer than their normal hue and darkened thanks to the haze of lust and the shadowy calm of the steam room.

It was as if every nerve in Blaine's body wanted to commit the moment to memory — every feather light brush of Kurt's fingers across Blaine's arms or back, every warm sigh from Kurt's lips as it tickled Blaine's ear and neck, the slight hitch in Kurt's breath as Blaine explored Kurt's lithe body with his mouth and hands. None of it could be forgotten.

Blaine had never felt such complete and utter surrender in another man's arms before. He doubted he ever would again, and all too soon, it was over, Kurt's arm dangling limply over the edge of the bench as Blaine lay panting on top of him, their combined sweat mingling together between them.

Their breathing fell in sync, hearts beating out rapid twin tempos as silence fell over them and Blaine felt the room begin to close in on him.

"I can't give this up," Kurt said.

"With any luck, we won't have to."

Kurt snorted. "Never in my life have I ever been that lucky."

"Things can change," Blaine reasoned.

"I hope you're right," Kurt said, stretching his neck so he could press a kiss to top of Blaine's head. "Your hair needs fixing."

"I can wet it down before we head back."

"I think you should go back alone," Kurt said. "I want to stay here and think."

Blaine sat up and looked down on his lover with concern. "Are you alright?"

"Of course," Kurt said with a weak smile. "Or, I will be." He propped himself on his elbows and locked his eyes on Blaine's. "You should go."

Blaine leaned forward and kissed Kurt one last time before gathering up his clothes and dressing again.

As he exited the baths and closed the door behind him, a looming shadow crossed his path. The shock of it sent Blaine reeling backward, clasping a hand over his chest.

"Grandfather," Blaine exclaimed. "I–"

"Don't bother with the lies," the old man said, raising a hand to silence Blaine. "I warned you. I won't have you endangering this family's reputation. This ends tonight."

Blaine felt his heart stutter and sink in his chest. "But–"

"But what? You love him?" his grandfather scoffed.

"He's my soul's mate," Blaine said. "I cannot imagine a life without him."

"Spare me the poetry, Blaine. You will marry Quinn and do what is expected of you, and to ensure that happens, I'm calling on my lawyer tomorrow and changing the terms of your trust as well as my will. You are forbidden from seeing that boy, and if you're ever caught in a compromising position with a young man again, you'll never see a dime of this family's money. Do you understand me?"

"I think you're being a bit unreasonable," Blaine said, his voice shaky and thin.

"I think I've been more than fair. This sordid behavior has been going on for months."

Blaine felt like he'd been punched in the gut. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew, Blaine. What do you take me for, an imbecile?"

"Then why did you allow it to continue, if you're so against it?"

"I thought you could be discreet, but you're a fool and a damned hopeless romantic just like Harold Pratt. You might as well dress as a fairy for all the care you put into your reputation."

"I promise we can be more careful, Grandfather. Just please don't do this."

"I'm afraid it's too late," Dr. Anderson said. "You've proven how incapable you are of managing your own affairs."

"But–"

"My word is final. Now, let's get back to the ball before the Fabrays notice we're both missing. And fix your hair. You look like a hobo."

Blaine glanced over his shoulder as his grandfather tugged harshly on his elbow. He nearly dropped his jacket in a puddle of water trying to see if Kurt had emerged and heard any of their conversation. Part of him hoped he had, knowing he may never get a chance to explain, but another part wished desperately that he could find a way to convince his grandfather to change his mind.

* * *

"Oh, there you are," Quinn said, gripping Blaine by the arm as she looped hers through it. "I was wondering where you'd gotten off to."

"I– I, uh, guess I was overwhelmed by all the attention. I needed some fresh air."

His grandfather clapped him on the back and leaned in close to his ear. "Good boy."

Something in Blaine snapped at those words; he felt the rage bubbling up inside him like a fountain about to overflow, but it didn't. Blaine fell into an eerie calm, like he was asleep but still standing upright. He could feel Quinn's hand on his arm, but everything else seemed far away and separate from his own existence. He allowed himself to be pulled along by his fiancée, his feet following a well-worn path of obedience and acquiescence he'd been traveling his entire life.

Dr. Anderson walked behind them, his footfalls practically echoing inside Blaine's head. Every other sound in the room was blocked out as they wove their way through the throng of partygoers; not even the gentle lull of the orchestra registered as sound. It was all a backdrop to reality, a dull and faded wallpaper that clung to the walls but did nothing to add to the atmosphere. Blaine let himself be drawn deeper and deeper into the crowd of guests, until he all but disappeared.

The well-wishers were abundant, slapping Blaine on the back, kissing Quinn's hand or asking to see her ring. The older guests chattered on about what handsome babies they would make, and the younger ones asked where they would honeymoon.

Quinn took it all in stride, smiling graciously at everyone, accepting their best wishes with sincerity and deferring to Blaine whenever socially appropriate. But Blaine just felt numb, no longer inhabiting his own body as he let everything happen around him, participating only when necessary.

It wasn't until he saw Kurt entering the ballroom, a cigarette clenched between his teeth, that his new reality began to sink in. He would never be alone with Kurt again, never touch him, or hear his name whispered in Kurt's melodious voice, or even see the smile that Kurt reserved for him. It was all over, and there was nothing more to do but accept that fate.

The ball went by in a blur, Blaine staunchly ignoring Kurt's presence for fear that one glance would shatter the delicate façade he'd built up around himself. He simply kept drinking and letting Quinn lead him around, introducing him to the few guests he had not met already. When he finally excused himself to go to the restroom after his fifth whiskey, he ran headlong into Kurt in the lobby. Blaine staggered on his feet and barely caught himself on the bannister.

"Easy there, cowboy," Kurt teased, reaching out to steady Blaine with an arm about his waist.

"I'm fine," Blaine said, the words coming out in a huff thanks to the firm press of Kurt's forearm into his sternum.

Kurt reeled back, turning his head away from Blaine's face. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Enough."

"Enough for what? To kill a person?"

"Enough to forget," Blaine said, slumping forward and not caring that he was pressing his body up against Kurt's. For the moment, he was content to take what little he could.

"You're speaking in riddles," Kurt said, allowing Blaine to lean his weight into him. "What has gotten into you?"

Leading Blaine to the bathroom, Kurt propped him against the wall and locked the door behind them.

"What are you doing?" Blaine said, suddenly feeling much more sober than he should have.

"Giving us some privacy," Kurt said, his eyes growing dark as they always did when he looked at Blaine. It sickened Blaine to know he may never see that look again.

"We can't be seen together," Blaine spat.

"Oh, don't be silly," Kurt said, trying to take Blaine's hand. "No one's around."

Blaine jerked his hand away. "I'm serious, Kurt. You need to go."

"What are you going on about?" Kurt said, his face still a bemused mix of confusion and concern.

"My grandfather," Blaine said. "He said if I ever see you again, I'm disinherited."

"Oh, nonsense… he's made idle threats before."

"This is different. He knows about us and said if I'm ever seen with you again, I get nothing. I'll be penniless, and worse still, I'll have no family name, Kurt. Do you have any idea what that means?"

"That you'll be like me?" Kurt scoffed.

"Kurt, that's not what I–"

"I think it's exactly what you meant," Kurt replied, his eyes flashing with something new that Blaine had not yet seen. "You act like I haven't had to make sacrifices."

"You know that's not what this is about."

"Then what?" Kurt pressed. "Tell me."

The silence stretched out between them like a tangled ball of twine, bending back on itself but only ever becoming knotted and useless. It felt as if the connection they had shared had been severed, cut from Blaine's soul like a dead limb.

"I'm not strong like you," Blaine said finally, his stomach churning from too much whiskey and too much emotion.

"You're pushing me away, just like you pushed Oliver away," Kurt said bitterly. "You'd rather have your money than live the life you deserve."

"You don't know anything about him… or me!" Blaine shouted. He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, but Kurt had swung a low blow.

Kurt didn't speak right away, looking surprised, like he had just realized something, or maybe it was just the shock of Blaine's raised voice. "You're right, I don't know you," he said, his voice barely a whisper that still echoed in the empty room. "I'll make this easy on us both." Kurt cast his eyes toward the floor, tears beginning to pool in them as he spoke the two words Blaine had never thought he'd hear: "Goodbye, Blaine."

And then he was gone.

Unable to keep his stomach in check anymore, Blaine bent over the bowl and released the torrent of whiskey and heartbreak that had consumed him.

Kurt was gone, and Blaine could not follow him.


	15. Chapter 15

PART III

**** April/May 1895 ****

Kurt spent his remaining two weeks in St. Augustine resolutely avoiding anywhere Blaine might appear, and since Dr. Anderson had forbidden Blaine from seeing him, it was unlikely they would run into each other anyway. Even so, Kurt spent most of his free time in Felix de Crano's studio, drawing and painting and determinedly trying _not_ to think about Blaine.

"Why are you here, young Mr. Hummel?" Felix inquired on Kurt's fifth day holed up in the studio. "You don't have somewhere more interesting to be?"

"Not anymore," Kurt muttered under his breath. "And anyway, I'd rather paint than go to balls and tennis matches."

Without ceasing his work, Felix nodded to himself as he applied more paint to the canvas in front of him. They worked in silence for a bit, Kurt trying to keep his mind on the sketch he had started. When he couldn't focus on the shading of a magnolia tree, he sighed heavily and threw the charcoal stick down on the table. "This is ridiculous!"

Felix stopped and turned to face him, studying Kurt's posture and unusually unkempt appearance. Raising his eyebrows, his mouth curved into a knowing smile. "Ah, you are lovesick," he said, pointing at Kurt with his paintbrush. "The lovely Miss Berry or another special someone?"

Kurt was silent for a moment, considering his next words very carefully. Leaning over the drawing table on his elbows, he ran his index finger through a stray drop of paint and watched as the crimson pigment spread and thinned, coating his finger and the wood surface in the blood red of creativity. "You know it's not Rachel," he said finally, deciding if Felix were to judge him, he'd be gone soon enough and none of it would matter anyway.

"Know what?" he replied, a delighted smirk on his face.

"Felix," Kurt said, wiping his finger clean on a rag. "Stop playing coy. I need someone I can talk to about this."

Felix turned to face Kurt, his hat slipping with the rapid movement. Raising his eyebrows, he said, "And you think I am that someone?"

"I trust you," Kurt said with a shrug.

Mr. de Crano smiled warmly, his blue eyes twinkling as he held Kurt's gaze. "You are a good man, Kurt Hummel. You shouldn't worry about what people think of you."

Kurt snorted. "That's easy to say when one is a beloved artist such as yourself."

"I wasn't always this," de Crano said, gesturing to his paint-covered smock and scraggly beard.

Kurt couldn't help but laugh. "I'm going to miss you," he said.

"Ah, but you are not gone yet. Let's enjoy each other's company while we still can, and you tell me what has you so lovesick on such a beautiful spring day."

Kurt looked down at the landscape he'd been sketching — a peaceful waterfront scene with boats in the harbor and the sun in the sky. He was supposed to be distracting himself from thinking about Blaine, but even this simple drawing was about him. It was the bayfront as he remembered it that first day they went sailing, a brisk chill in the air, but the sun bright and warm on his skin as he let himself fall under Blaine's spell. He missed the man more than he could say, but his wounded pride and his stubborn streak wouldn't let him admit it. Something about Felix's warm smile and kind words cracked the fragile shell Kurt had built around his heart, and suddenly he needed to let it all go.

"You remember my charcoal man?" Kurt asked, referencing the sketch he had done of Blaine all those weeks ago.

"Mr. Problem?" Felix inquired.

"That's him," Kurt said. "His name is Blaine."

"Ah, yes… young Mr. Anderson. I remember he was quite a good friend to you."

Kurt took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "We were more than friends… lovers, actually."

When Felix didn't immediately reply, Kurt opened one eye, squinting up at him as he braced himself for the painter's reaction. But Felix was beaming from ear to ear and barely containing a chuckle that shook his upper body with its force.

"You knew," Kurt said. "All this time, and you knew."

"I knew you boys had something special, yes. But I didn't think too much about it. I knew if you wanted to tell me, you would. It was none of my business."

"I wish everyone thought like you."

"So you are no longer lovers?" Felix asked.

"No," Kurt said sadly. "Not anymore."

"What happened?"

As Kurt relayed the story to Mr. de Crano, he felt a weight begin to lift from his shoulders. The ache in his chest was far from gone, but at least he could breathe again without the crushing press of his secret weighing him down.

"Mr. de Crano, would it be alright if I wrote to you from time to time?" Kurt asked shyly. "I don't have many friends, and it would mean a lot to me."

"Of course, my boy. I am not much of a writer myself, but I will do my best and I can sketch for you."

"That would be wonderful," Kurt said with a genuine smile.

* * *

Several weeks later, Kurt found himself back in New York planning a wedding he didn't want to a woman he loved more like a sister than a lover. His heart weighed heavier than he ever could have imagined, and yet it continued beating resolutely in his chest as if it hadn't been shattered into a million pieces.

Rachel said she noticed a change in Kurt but didn't press him for details, even though she kept her keen eye locked on him, studying his expressions and asking questions with her eyes. Kurt caught himself pretending more often than not, smiling at Rachel when he felt like crying, or worse, confessing. He laughed at her jokes and praised her singing; he even began work on her wedding gown, all as if nothing were amiss.

The only thing keeping him going, apart from his daily visits to the local saloon, was his father's upcoming wedding to Mrs. Hudson. Burt had been happier than Kurt had seen him in a long while, and no matter how heartbroken he was personally, nothing could keep Kurt from basking in the glow of his father's happiness.

The morning of their wedding was the first warm day of the spring, and Carole looked radiant in the gown Kurt had designed for her. He still missed his own mother terribly, but in the short time that he had known Mrs. Hudson, Kurt had genuinely grown to care for her. He'd put expert care into the design of her wedding gown, adding personal touches and using the finest silk they could afford. She was going to be a beautiful bride, and it would be delightful to see her in a color other than black.

Kurt had yet to meet her son, who had been traveling abroad for the past year, but he was meant to arrive the morning of the wedding to walk his mother down the aisle and give her away. Kurt decided that a young man who would do that for his widowed mother must be a special kind of gentleman, but other than that, he honestly didn't know what to expect. He was just wondering what Mr. Hudson was like when a giant of a man walked up to him where he stood guard at the back of the church and clapped him soundly on the back.

"You must be Kurt," the man said, holding out his hand. "I'm Finn Hudson. Looks like after today we'll be brothers."

Kurt craned his neck up; he'd never seen someone so tall before. At just under six feet himself, it was rare that he was the smaller man in any situation, but Finn towered over him by at least five inches.

"Hello," Kurt said, reaching out to shake Finn's hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Finn's handshake was firm, but unthreatening, and Kurt was already at ease thanks to the man's friendly smile. His stomach fluttered with a feeling reminiscent of what he had felt when he first met Blaine. Considering the circumstances, it was a terrifying thought.

"Mom tells me you designed her gown," Finn said, grinning. "I can't wait to see it."

"Uh, yeah…" Kurt squeaked before clearing his throat and trying again. "She's uh, in the minister's office if you want to see her. She looks beautiful."

"Thanks, Kurt," he said, clapping him on the shoulder again before leaving him alone.

"Who was that?" Rachel asked, suddenly appearing at Kurt's side.

"Mrs. Hudson's son, Finn."

"He's so… tall," she said.

Kurt glanced down at her, stunning in the pale green gown he'd designed for the occasion, and saw her dark eyes sparkling with interest.

"And quite handsome," Kurt said, unable to resist the opportunity to tease his best friend.

"Well, yes… I suppose. If you like that sort of thing," she said. "Personally I think he's too tall. And his crooked little smile… It's absolutely boyish."

Kurt couldn't help but laugh at Rachel getting flustered and trying to conceal her attraction. She was the worst liar imaginable and it was quite obvious she found Finn appealing.

"Some might find that sort of thing charming," Kurt said.

"Not me," Rachel said haughtily. "I've got all the man I need right here." She pressed a chaste kiss to Kurt's cheek before glancing around to make sure no one had seen. It was so typically Rachel to flout the rules and then concern herself with public opinion after the fact. As always, Kurt found it difficult not to adore Rachel, even if he was not in love with her. So much of her personality reminded Kurt of himself, but with a more brash way of expressing it. He admired her for her boldness and wished he could be more like her.

As he escorted Rachel to her seat at the front of the church, Kurt caught sight of his father's face, a beaming smile cemented firmly on it for what seemed like the first time in ages. He hadn't smiled like that since before Kurt's mother got sick. Kurt wished she could be there to see it.

The ceremony was brief but beautiful. Carole's chestnut hair caught the light through the stained-glass windows of the church beautifully, and when she smiled after the minister pronounced her and Burt man and wife, she looked ten years younger. It was a good day.

After the ceremony, Mrs. Berry held a reception in her home for the new Mr. and Mrs. Hummel. The spread was nowhere near as lavish as the one Dr. Anderson had hosted back in St. Augustine, but the celebration was much more relaxed and filled with laughter.

"I've been thinking, darling," Rachel said, her third glass of wine in her hand. "We should sing something for the happy couple."

"I think the drink has gone to your head," Kurt said.

"Miss Berry, I think that's a wonderful idea," Finn interjected. "What did you have in mind?"

"See, not everyone is a stick in the mud, Kurt." In a very unladylike way, Rachel stuck her tongue out at him before turning a bright smile in Finn's direction. "I knew you were a kindred spirit, Mr. Hudson."

"Please, we're practically family. Call me Finn." His brown eyes crinkled at the edges with his smile as he gazed down on Rachel. She looked so tiny next to him.

"Finn," Rachel said, dropping her gaze demurely before looking back up at him through her long lashes. "Then you may call me Rachel."

Kurt watched as the pair huddled on a settee in the corner of the sitting room, plotting their performance for the bride and groom. It should have bothered him how closely they sat, or the way Rachel giggled and flirted with Finn, but he was actually content to watch them interact, enjoying the moment alone.

"Looks like someone is swooping in on your lady," a familiar voice warned.

Kurt turned to find a small, bespectacled man who propped himself up on a thick wooden cane. "Mr. Abrams, so nice to see you," Kurt beamed.

"Kurt, we're the same age," the man said. "I've told you to call me Artie."

"Not until you give Rachel her first big break," Kurt replied. "Until then you're Mr. Arthur Abrams, renowned stage director and playwright."

"Stuff and nonsense, man," Artie chided, reaching out to shake Kurt's hand. "It's good to see you again."

"Likewise. Although, perhaps you should steer clear of Rachel for the time being. You know she is still put out that you and Miss Motta are to be married before us."

"Well, take heart, Mr. Hummel. Sugar will likely land me in the poor house with this wedding. She's spent twice our budget already."

"I don't envy you that," Kurt said.

The two stood in awkward silence for a moment, Kurt fiddling with the edge of his glass as Artie adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. "Have you and Rachel set a date?" he asked finally, much to Kurt's gratitude.

"We're thinking July," Kurt said. "Mrs. Berry is trying to persuade their Rabbi to let us get married in the synagogue, but I would have to convert."

Artie nodded. Despite running in the same circles as the Berrys, most people tried to ignore the fact that Rachel's family was Jewish. Kurt found it laughable, as if they thought not talking about it would make it go away – as if it mattered at all.

"I heard you spent the winter in Florida," Artie said after a moment. "How did you find it?"

Kurt drew back, tension creeping into his shoulders and settling along his spine like an unwelcome guest. "I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind," he spat.

"High society too much for you, Hummel?" Artie teased.

"Something like that," Kurt replied. "I should check on my father. Good to see you, Mr. Abrams."

He set off toward the kitchen, hoping to find it empty, but instead ran into his new stepmother.

"Kurt, you must come let me show you off. The ladies were all gushing over my gown earlier and I told them all my new son made it. They're dying to meet you."

"Actually, I was just going to—"

"Nonsense," Carole interrupted. "It's my wedding day, and you must indulge me."

Kurt let himself be pulled along like a nag, smiling at the ladies Carole introduced him to, and answering questions about the type of fabric he used and how he got his stitching so precise.

"You're so lucky to have him for a son," one lady cooed.

"You'll be the best dressed lady in New York," another gushed.

Their faces blurred together in a sea of endless chatter. Like the gentle lull of a train cruising down the tracks, it numbed Kurt's senses until he was all but sleepwalking.

"Are you alright?" Carole asked, after a plump old woman in a dress that had been out of fashion for at least eight years asked Kurt if he'd learned how to sew from his mother.

"I'm sorry," Kurt rasped. "I think I need some air."

Without waiting for Carole to excuse him, Kurt bolted for the kitchen and ran out of the house through the back door. His freshly shined shoes sank into the mud, causing it to seep into his socks, but he kept running until he no longer recognized the houses on the street.

When he stopped, he was panting heavily and mud had splattered up his pant legs to his knees. He shook his right leg to dislodge the heavier chunks, but his pants were likely ruined. He sighed and sat down on the stoop of the nearest building. Dropping his head into his hands, he blinked back bitter tears. He wasn't even sure why he was crying because, rather than sadness, anger seethed through him, burning like a fire and spreading like a plague that coated his aching and broken heart in the blackened, charred remains of his love.

Eventually his breathing calmed, and he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes. A small card fell from his pocket and landed on the step next to him. Kurt picked it up and fingered the edge of the thick paper, remembering the day spent in Atlanta when Chandler had given it to him.

He turned it over and ran his fingers across the raised type, its familiarity a small comfort to him. Perhaps all hope was not lost after all.

* * *

Kurt stood in front of the looming, three-story building on Cooper Square, craning his neck to see the windows above his head. For all intents and purposes, it was an unassuming brick structure, no different or more sinister than any of the other buildings on the street, but Kurt knew the sort that frequented Columbia Hall, or Paresis Hall as it had come to be known by its patrons.

Several effeminate looking young boys walked past Kurt, leering suggestively at him and calling out in voices even higher than Kurt's own. He swallowed heavily and tried to ignore them as he worked up the courage to go inside.

"Can I help you?" a gruff voice asked. It belonged to a man about Kurt's height with a thick black mustache and heavily pomaded hair. He wore an immaculately tailored dark suit, a caped overcoat, shiny top hat and gloves. He carried a walking stick and had bright white spats covering his shiny black shoes. He looked completely out of place in this part of the Bowery. But then again, Kurt probably did too.

"I was, uh… looking for someone," Kurt stammered.

The man looked him up and down, narrowing his eyes as he examined Kurt bodily. "If you're wanting something more discreet, I know a place that's more careful about who they let in." He held out a small card to Kurt, much like the one Chandler had given Kurt, but this one was a pale pink and read: "Miss Lopez's Ladies Seminary, 123 West 27th Street, 8 Lady Boarders."

"Thank you," Kurt said, attempting to hand the card back to its owner, "but I'm not really—"

The man leaned in and lowered his voice. "They serve your kind there too," he said. "But only Miss Lopez needs to know."

Kurt gaped at him in shock.

"Like I said," the man added with a grin. "Discreet."

He tipped his hat to Kurt and then disappeared inside the building. Apparently discretion mattered little to him.

Eventually, Kurt worked up the courage to go in, nearly getting struck by the heavy oak door when it swung shut behind him. He might have gotten out of the way faster, but what he saw took his very breath away.

More than thirty men filled the parlor of the club, all of them in the company of men dressed entirely in women's clothing. The fairies draped themselves all over their gentleman callers, flirting and wriggling about like loose women. Kurt had never seen such behavior in all of his life. He was equal parts disgusted and intrigued.

He stood frozen in the entryway of the establishment for a few moments before a man approached him. Well, Kurt assumed he was a man; it was hard to tell under all the rouge and powder, not to mention the bright yellow afternoon dress he wore. He had no whiskers on his face, and his hair was a long, loose mess of auburn curls.

"May I help you, handsome?" the fairy asked.

"I'm uh… looking for someone," Kurt managed to eek out.

"Aren't we all?"

Kurt ignored the coquettish way the man smiled at him, clearing his throat loudly to mask his nerves. "Chandler Kiehl," he said. "Do you know if he is on the premises?"

"Damn, you're a stiff one," the fairy replied. "I could use a stiff one… if you know what I mean." He winked at him, and to Kurt's horror, pinched his backside.

Kurt jumped and felt a flush of heat rush to his cheeks.

"Relax, mister. I'll go get him," the fairy replied. He turned to leave, and Kurt was about to let out a relieved exhale when he turned around. "You might want to get yourself a drink. He's with a client; it could be a while." He gestured toward a dingy bar in the next room before heading up the stairs in a flurry of yellow silk and auburn curls.

Trying to blend in as best he could, Kurt made his way to the bar and ordered himself a whiskey. He leaned against the oak surface and let his eyes rove the room.

Despite the raucous nature of the club, Kurt found most of the men there looked like gentlemen he had often seen on the streets: well-groomed beards and perfectly fitted suits, heavy watch chains attached to silk waistcoats. He could hardly believe his eyes. He wondered if Blaine had ever been to a place like this. Without really thinking about it, he scanned the room for a familiar head of dark pomaded hair and eyes the color of whiskey. Instead, he was greeted with long sandy hair and bright blue eyes.

"Kurt!" Chandler shrieked. "It's so good to see you." He gripped Kurt in a crushing hug, the scent of bergamot wafting up from his clothing to tickle Kurt's nose. "What brings you to Columbia Hall?"

"I found your card the other day and thought we should catch up," Kurt said, smoothing down his hair and clothing now that Chandler had released him. He shuffled on his feet a little, trying to figure out what to say. "You're busy… I should go."

"Nonsense," Chandler said. "I can take a few hours off for an old friend. "Can I freshen your drink?"

"Sure," Kurt said timidly as Chandler took his empty glass and signaled the bartender.

"How long have you been back in New York?"

"Only a few weeks," Kurt replied. "My father just got married."

"That's exciting," Chandler cooed. "I love weddings."

"You do?"

"Sure… all that love and ceremony… and promise," he said as the bartender refilled their glasses. "It's uplifting. Gives me hope and all that."

"You're a hopeless romantic in spite of yourself, Mr. Kiehl," Kurt said, taking a sip of the whiskey and letting it burn his throat. It was a welcome feeling after the numbness that had consumed him of late. He knew whiskey wasn't the answer to his problems, but it dulled the sharper edges and made him forget.

"Just because I don't believe in love doesn't mean I don't believe it exists," Chandler replied. "What about you? Where's your fella?"

He craned his neck as if he expected to see Blaine walking in at any moment. His long hair flopped in his eyes as he turned his head to look.

As Chandler's eyes surveyed the room, Kurt swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid change color with the light.

It reminded him too much of Blaine's eyes.

He set the glass down with a thunk, reaching up to scrub his hand across his face. A callus on his thumb scratched his chin roughly as it drug across his face. Kurt bit the spot where it had formed near the knuckle and worried the rough skin between his teeth. Since he returned to New York, he had been sewing more frequently and when he worked on embroidery, he would brace the stitch with his thumb, causing the needle to strike it from time to time. He hated the coarse feeling of the skin there and when he was nervous he would often pick at it. It was a nasty habit.

"He's not my fella anymore," Kurt mumbled into his own hand.

"What happened?" Chandler asked, genuine sympathy on his face as he reached out and laid a hand on Kurt's arm.

"Just what you said. He went home to the missus," Kurt scoffed, referencing their first conversation in Atlanta. He dropped his head in his hands and sighed. Feeling a hand on his back, running a soothing line from shoulder to waist, Kurt instinctively leaned into the touch.

"It was inevitable," Chandler said. "Doesn't make it hurt any less, though."

Kurt looked up at Chandler, the familiar sting of tears burning his eyes. "I just feel so damned stupid," he said. "And the worst part is, I'm still madly in love with the idiot."

"I could find you a 'friend,' " Chandler offered.

Kurt shook his head and laughed. As if that were the answer to his problems. No, another lover would only make things worse. "No, thank you," he said. "That's not really why I'm here."

"Then why are you here?" Chandler asked, looking intrigued.

"I was hoping you'd help me," Kurt replied. "To come out of my shell. Embrace the aesthetic lifestyle."

"Of course," Chandler said with a gracious half bow. "I'm at your service."

* * *

"You can't escort me to the theatre wearing that brooch," Rachel said. "You'll take someone's eye out."

Kurt looked down at the dragonfly pin that he had used to secure his tie. It went perfectly with the turquoise waistcoat he had made and the new lemon-colored kid gloves he had just bought.

Since he'd begun to run in the same circles as Chandler, frequenting the clubs in the Bowery, he had also begun dressing more flamboyantly, much to Rachel's dismay. She missed no chance to tell him how much she disliked his brightly colored suits and the bold accessories he had taken to wearing.

"Rachel, I can't take it off now. I'd have to change my entire ensemble."

Rolling her eyes at him like she had been fond of when they were children, Rachel said, "It's a _woman's_ hat pin."

"Oh, nonsense," Kurt said with a stern look. "Why should that matter? Women are wearing pants now."

"Those are _bloomers_ , Kurt, and they're for _bicycling_. We're going to the theatre," Rachel whined. "Why do you insist on embarrassing me?"

"Oh, I don't know," Kurt said. "Probably the same reason you like to embarrass me."

"What on earth are you going on about?" Rachel asked, laughing a little as she checked her hair in the hall mirror.

"You and Finn after the wedding," Kurt said. "You think I didn't see the way you were looking at him?"

"You're being ridiculous," Rachel said, brushing off his anger with the smile she used when she wanted her way.

Kurt raised his eyebrow in challenge. "Am I?"

"Of course you are, darling." She reached up and cupped his cheek in her gloved hand. "Now come along or we'll be late for the play."

Following her out into the warm night, Kurt felt uneasy, as if this thing between them were unsettled. Usually he and Rachel could argue and everything would go back to normal, but this time there was an underlying unease that made Kurt's skin burn with the uncomfortable itch of resentment. Something was altogether wrong, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

He grew more and more sullen around Rachel the more time he spent exploring his newfound lifestyle among the fairies of the Bowery. He was careful to only frequent the clubs Chandler had told him were safe and always stuck to rent boys he knew to be friends of Chandler. But all the companionship in the world could not make up for what he was really missing, and it wounded him to his core.

Rachel spent more and more time going to auditions and trying to get a theatre to take her on as a resident artist in a company, so Kurt rarely saw her apart from when she needed an escort for some such outing.

Even as they drifted, Rachel continued to plan their wedding, choosing colors and flowers that she knew would infuriate Kurt. For his part, Kurt responded to every distasteful change to their wedding arrangements by dressing more outlandishly and boldly, which was why on another particular evening, he was wearing a purple brocade waistcoat with his pale cream suit and a purple gillyflower on his left breast. Rachel's jaw dropped when she descended the stairs and saw Kurt standing in her parlor, leaning on a silver tipped walking stick and adjusting his hair in the hall mirror. He could just make out her reflection over his shoulder, her hands balled into tiny fists at her side as her eyes widened at the sight.

"You like it?" Kurt asked mock innocently. "I made it myself."

"How _dare_ you," Rachel fumed. "You know we're going to meet Artie and Sugar for dinner and you're wearing that?! You know how important this is for me."

"Darling–"

"Don't try to placate me, Kurt. You're deliberately trying to ruin this." Rachel looked on the verge of tears. Even in the midst of their current battle, Kurt hated to see her cry.

"I swear to you, I'm not," Kurt said gently. "I'm just trying to be true to myself."

"What about me?" Rachel pleaded. "All I've ever wanted is to be on stage. You know that."

"I know," Kurt said, lowering his gaze, unable to look at her pained expression. He couldn't stand disappointing her.

"I'll never be an actress now," Rachel sobbed. "Not with you on my arm. People won't want anything to do with me."

In a flash, all of his concern for Rachel left his mind as his pride took over.

"Then maybe we shouldn't get married!" Kurt shouted.

"I was thinking the very same thing," Rachel spat, her face growing flushed as she talked. "You're not my Kurt. I don't know what you've done with him, but you're not him. You're… You're…"

"I'm what, Rachel? Just say it." He pinched the bridge of his nose, bracing himself for what was to come. His anger ebbed and began to wane almost as quickly as it had come. The words were forming in his mind just as they were in hers. He knew what she was going to say before he heard it, and yet it still pained him to know she was thinking it.

Tears welled up in Rachel's brown eyes. She didn't want to hurt him, even in his anger Kurt could see that. Her words came out in a choked whisper, but they were unmistakable. "A fairy, Kurt. You look like a fairy."

Nodding slowly, Kurt tilted his head as he considered her. Could he really spend the rest of his life hiding his true self, even for Rachel's sake? "Is that what you think, Rachel? Truly?"

"I'm not the only one," she defended. "Even Finn says so."

Kurt reeled back, his fury rising anew. "You've been talking to Finn about me?"

"Well, he is your brother…" Rachel trailed off, taking in Kurt's heated expression. She cast her gaze downward and picked at the fingers of her gloves.

"How often do you see Finn?" Kurt hissed.

"N-not often," Rachel stammered. "He escorts me to auditions sometimes, and we went on a picnic… but his mother invited me. I swear I haven't done anything to make you look a fool."

"You love him, don't you?"

Rachel gaped like a fish for a few seconds. "N-no, of course not…. No, I love you," she stammered breathlessly. But it was too late, Kurt had already seen the truth in her eyes, and heard it in the nervous laughter that followed.

"Rachel, you really are a terrible liar," Kurt laughed through his tears.

"I never could fool you," she said, her eyes as watery as Kurt's. She smiled at him, and he pulled her into a warm embrace.

Rachel relaxed into Kurt's arms and they were quiet for a moment. Perhaps, like Kurt, she was remembering the childhood they had shared and reflecting on their shared grief when they both lost parents scant months apart.

"Whatever shall we do now?" Rachel asked, her words muffled in the thick fabric around Kurt's middle.

Inhaling deeply, he caught the scent of Rachel's jasmine perfume and felt suddenly at ease. "Well, you don't have to marry me if you don't want to," he offered.

Pulling back sharply, Rachel looked up at Kurt, her brown eyes wide with shock. "You can't mean that," she said. "What would people say?"

"Tell them it was me," Kurt said, reaching up to stroke a stray curl that had escaped from its coif. "That I broke it off because I wanted to…" He trailed off, unsure of what could possibly be a good enough reason for him to dishonor Rachel in such a way.

"Wanted to what, Kurt?" Rachel asked. Her hands pressed firmly into Kurt's chest as they still clung to each other. "I know something has been up with you since you returned from St. Augustine. Please tell me what it is."

Kurt swallowed around a heavy lump in his throat. "I can't," he rasped, unable to meet Rachel's gaze.

"Well, you can't break off our engagement for no reason," Rachel reasoned.

"No, I suppose not."

Rachel's fingers wrapped around the petals of the flower on Kurt's chest, her eyes following the movement. "Do you want to marry me?" she asked.

Kurt pulled back from their embrace, and sat on the stairs, leaning a little on his walking stick as his posture faltered. He finally allowed himself to be really and truly seen by his oldest and dearest friend. No longer able to hide his anguish, Kurt met Rachel's concerned gaze.

"I'm not sure I ever want to marry," he said.

The shock only read on her face for a moment before she composed herself and came to sit by Kurt on the stairs. She looped her arm through his as they had done since they were children and she laid her head on his shoulder.

"I won't force you to do something you don't wish to," she said. "I love you too much for that."

"And I you," Kurt replied.

Pressing a gentle kiss to his temple, Rachel said softly, "We'll figure something out, Kurt. I promise."

* * *

That night, Kurt penned a letter to Blaine. He chose to not tell him of his broken engagement, deciding that if Blaine were to return to him, it must be because of his own making, not because he thought he could rescue Kurt from his loneliness.

_Dearest Blaine,_

_I hate that we're so far apart, but I have to come to terms with the fact that this is our fate. This is what we are, and this is all we will ever have, and this is what I have to live with. But I'll never regret finding you… for as long as I live, I will cherish every moment we were together and regret every moment we are apart. I need you to know that I am forever a better man because you approached me under that gold-leafed ceiling, and for that I will forever be grateful. I wish you all the best in your marriage to Quinn and hope you will forgive me for my harsh words the last time we spoke._

_Forever yours,  
K _

In the following weeks, Kurt fell deeper into despair. He may not have wanted to marry Rachel, but without the predictable comfort and structure of planning a future with her, he felt as if he were floating aimlessly in a stormy sea. The uncertainty of what the future would bring terrified him to his very core, and he wished Blaine would reply to his letter — if only to tell him he never wanted to hear from him again. Anything would be better than the waiting; the silence was deafening.

In the end, Kurt waited eight weeks for a response, and when none came, he resolved to make the most of what he had.

Chandler had helped him to secure a small shop near the Bowery that had a room upstairs he could rent. He sent Kurt all of his patrons and friends who needed clothes mended thanks to their rowdy nights. Assuring them Kurt would be discreet, Chandler had created a niche market of sorts for him among the Bowery boys. Kurt worked unusual hours and kept to himself. His clients needn't fear their wives or mothers finding out they were keeping company with prostitutes or getting in bar fights. It wasn't exactly his dream scenario, but Kurt was happy to be his own man, and the work distracted him from thinking about Blaine… mostly.

It helped that his father still dropped by periodically, even if it was only to try to convince him to come home and work at Edison.

"All I'm saying is, you'd be able to afford proper heat if you had steadier income," Burt said, rubbing his arms to stay warm. "It's freezing in here."

"If I'm ever going to become a dressmaker, I can't be wasting away in some machine shop," Kurt said.

"You'd rather freeze your limbs off in this place?" he challenged, gesturing at the fraying wallpaper and the exposed plaster on the walls, looking down with disgust at the dirty, creaking floorboards.

"It's not that bad," Kurt said, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck as he moved to stoke the fire in the tiny stove that barely heated the corner it stood in.

Burt sighed and raked his hand over his bald head. "Are you at least happy, Kurt?"

"I will be," he replied with honesty.

His father nodded slowly, as if he knew that were the answer before he had asked the question. Kurt could hardly stand the look of anguish in his eyes.

"How's Rachel?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

"Same as ever," Burt replied. "You know her."

Kurt laughed. "Indeed I do. I'm glad to hear she's faring well, though. I feel positively awful about breaking our engagement."

"She knows," Burt said, placing his hand on Kurt's forearm.

Kurt knew the touch was meant to be a comfort, but it felt unusually heavy to him. He pulled away, but covered the action by crossing his arms as if he were trying to keep warm.

His father's reaction was subtle but obvious. The skin around his mouth tightened and he pulled his hand back, glancing at it for a fraction of a second before returning it to his own lap.

"I know what I did was unforgivable," Kurt said, "but she is far better off without being saddled with marrying a man who could never love her in the way she wants… or deserves."

"I'm glad you feel that way," Burt said, pausing for a moment. "Because Finn has been courting her."

Despite the fact that he wasn't at all surprised, Kurt's eyebrows shot up at the news. "How long?"

"Only a couple weeks, but Carole says they are quite serious. It's for the best after a broken engagement. You know how Mrs. Berry worried no one would have her."

Kurt nodded. "He'll be good for her."

"And what about you?"

"I'll manage," Kurt said. "I always have."


	16. Chapter 16

**** May/June 1895 ****

Blaine, for his part, missed Kurt desperately, but knew he would be unable to contact him while still in St. Augustine and under the watchful gaze of his grandfather. Even if he could have found a way, Kurt had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with Blaine. Every day after their fight, he watched Kurt make his way to Felix de Crano's studio, not re-emerging for hours on end.

He once caught a glimpse of Kurt's broad shoulders at dinner, but he was gone just as quickly as he had appeared, reminding Blaine of a phantom and leaving him wondering if he had imagined it.

His last afternoon in St. Augustine was gray and overcast; the heat of a New York summer had begun to creep in with the humid Florida spring season, and his clothes clung to him like a droopy second skin. His thick curls could not be tamed even by extra pomade, which only held for a few scant moments once he was outside. Even Quinn, who rarely vocalized her complaints, was in poor spirits thanks to the sticky heat of the sleepy city.

"I'll be glad to get back to New York," she said to Blaine as they took the air in the orange groves, where the shade helped to ease some of the discomfort from the rising temperatures. "This heat is oppressive." She flicked her fan rapidly as if to emphasize her words.

"You're not feeling faint, are you?" Blaine asked, taking in her flushed face and inelegant movements.

"No, just hot," she replied. "But I wouldn't say no to a cool drink."

"Of course," Blaine replied. "Follow me. I believe Mrs. Anderson made some lemonade just this morning. I'm sure she'd love the company."

"Only if you think it's not too much trouble," Quinn said politely.

"Not at all," Blaine said, smiling. "And there's usually a good cross breeze in the parlor this time of day."

The couple headed west toward Markland, Quinn's left hand resting delicately in the crook of Blaine's elbow, her fan keeping a rapid pace as she chatted about the perils of packing after a long stay.

"Mother insisted I let the maid do it, but I like to know where my own things are," Quinn said. "I reminded her that I'm going to be married, and I can look after myself."

"And what did she say to that?" Blaine asked.

"Nothing. I think I shocked her," Quinn said proudly.

Blaine truly had grown fond of Quinn the past few months. He certainly didn't think he would be so lucky to be marrying a woman he genuinely cared for, especially not after meeting and falling in love with Kurt, but he found her compelling and intelligent — even if she wasn't Kurt.

Against his own wishes, his mind wandered to Kurt, who was most likely back in New York by now. Blaine wasn't proud of the fact he'd been keeping tabs on the Hummel men, but it comforted him to know Kurt's whereabouts, whether it be Mr. de Crano's studio or on a train headed north.

It occurred to Blaine that he hadn't seen the painter in more than a week, and resolved to call on the man before he left town the following morning.

Ascending the steps on the front porch of Markland, Blaine was uncertain if he should knock or walk right in. He tried to remember what was customary, now that his grandfather was married and Blaine was still technically a guest, but his brain had somehow scrubbed that particular detail from his memory.

"Are you going to knock?" Quinn asked, her voice soft as she tilted her head in inquiry.

"Oh, yes… of course," Blaine said, raising his fist to the door.

It only took a few moments for Jenkins to come to the door. "Mr. Blaine," he said. "And Miss Fabray. How nice to see you again."

"Hello, Jenkins," Quinn replied as he held the door and stepped aside for her to enter.

"We were hoping to call on Miss Mary," Blaine offered.

"In here, Blaine," Mrs. Anderson called from the front parlor.

With a nod to Jenkins, Blaine escorted Quinn into the parlor, where his grandfather and his new bride were seated. Mary set aside her needlepoint when they entered, and she nudged Dr. Anderson, forcing him to set aside his newspaper.

"Lucy, what a pleasant surprise," Mary said. "I had hoped to see you again before you head north."

"The parlor looks lovely, Mrs. Anderson," Quinn replied. "I love the new colors."

"Oh, thank you, dear. Andrew said it was too garish, but I assured him it's the height of fashion."

"Indeed it is, Dr. Anderson," Quinn offered, her congenial smile attempting to charm him into submission.

It must have worked, because Dr. Anderson laughed. "Can't argue with two of you," he said. "Blaine, why don't we let the ladies talk and you and I can have a cigar in the library."

Blaine nodded curtly, and spared a glance over his shoulder for Quinn as he followed his grandfather into the next room.

Dr. Anderson crossed to the sideboard and poured them each a whiskey. He handed one to Blaine before lighting a cigar and taking his usual seat by the fireplace; he raised an eyebrow as if to ask Blaine why he wasn't seated in the chair opposite him. Without a word, Blaine complied, delicately sipping his whiskey as he let the silence breathe for a moment.

"I expect you not to go looking for the Hummel boy when you're back in New York," Dr. Anderson said without preamble, lighting his fat cigar and shaking the match vigorously, all without making eye contact with Blaine.

It wasn't a question, and Blaine didn't respond.

"Mr. Fabray tells me you inquired about getting married this year."

Blaine nodded. "I thought it would be for the best, given the circumstances."

A halo of cigar smoke hovered around Dr. Anderson's head, giving him an ominous look, the faint wisps of white snaking in and out of his thick mustache and working its way toward Blaine, choking his lungs.

"I'm glad you're finally coming to your senses," his grandfather said.

"Well, it's not as if I had much of a choice."

His grandfather huffed, flicking the ash from his cigar into the fireplace. "Why must you always be so damned insolent, boy?" he barked.

"Must be in my blood," Blaine retorted. "Anderson men come by their disdain honestly."

"That mouth of yours will get you into trouble some day. Mark my words," Dr. Anderson replied, sighing heavily. He sipped his whiskey, blue eyes piercing over the edge of the glass as Blaine pulled his cigarette case from his pocket and lit one. Watching Blaine intently, he said, "I've had my lawyer rework my will. You are to have no more contact with that boy. Visit the bath houses… or the Bowery clubs; I don't care, but you will never see him again."

"Yes, sir," Blaine gritted out between clenched teeth.

"I mean it," Dr. Anderson warned. "Do not test me. You will not win."

Blaine stood to take his leave. "Are we finished?" he spat.

"For now," came the terse reply. "Give Quinn my regards."

"You're not joining us?" Blaine asked, feeling relieved.

"I need to visit the hospital," he said gravely. "I expect you home for–"

"Darling?" Mary called from the parlor.

A heavy sigh punctuated Blaine's foul mood as his grandfather stood and pushed past him and into the parlor. Blaine had no choice but to follow.

"Yes, dear?"

"I was just telling Quinn how lovely she'd look with some jewels in her hair for the wedding. Would it be alright if I let her borrow my emerald hair combs?"

"As you wish, darling; they're yours. But are you sure? You haven't even worn them yet."

Mary waved off her husband's concern. "I'll wear them eventually," she said. "Besides, they'd be so lovely in her fair hair… and those green eyes." She sighed dreamily and smiled at Blaine. "You'll have the most beautiful bride in New York."

"I am a lucky man," Blaine said, although his words had no emotion behind them.

As Mary called for Jenkins to fetch the combs, Blaine's grandfather gave him a stern sidelong glance.

Blaine ignored the warning, though. "Quinn darling, we should probably be getting back. Your mother will want you for tea."

Quinn smiled, but it was pinched. "Oh, of course," she said, rising to her feet without complaint.

"I'll have someone send the combs over before dinner," Mary offered.

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Anderson. We'll see you in July for the wedding?" Quinn said as she picked up her gloves and fan.

"Of course, dear," Mary said, rising from her chair to see her guests to the door.

"I'll escort Miss Fabray back to the hotel," Blaine said, eyeing his grandfather carefully, "but I'll be back for dinner.

He gripped Quinn's elbow more forcefully than was necessary and pulled her from the parlor.

"Blaine," she protested when they were on the porch, the heavy door closed behind them. "You're hurting me."

Pulling his hand away like it had betrayed him, Blaine recoiled. "Forgive me." He found himself quite unable look at her, though, instead turning his attention to his shoes and noting a heavy scuff on the toe of the left one.

"Of course," she replied, her tone terse and cold. "Let's head back."

Blaine nodded slowly, noting that Quinn did not loop her hand through his crooked elbow as she usually did. He stuffed his hands in his pockets like a remorseful child, and they walked back to the Ponce in silence.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Miss Fabray," he said, kissing her gloved hand before leaving her standing in stony silence at the door of the suite.

Without really considering his path, Blaine found his way to the artists' studios, stopping outside studio number one as if his feet had led him there of their own accord. He raised his fist to knock but froze with his knuckles mere inches from the door.

"What am I doing?" he said out loud.

"Looks like you're knocking."

Blaine wheeled around to find himself face-to-face with Felix de Crano. "Mr. de Crano," he gasped, "you gave me a fright."

Laughing so deeply his beard shook with the force of it, the man said, "I knew I looked scruffy like an old dog, but I didn't think it was that bad."

"Oh, I didn't mean… that is… I—" A hand on his arm stopped his rambling.

"Relax, Mr. Anderson, you gave me no offense."

"I'm glad, Mr. de Crano. Seems I can do no right these days." He followed the painter into his studio and closed the door behind him.

"To what do I owe such a pleasure?" Felix asked. "I thought nearly everyone had gone back to New York."

"I'm leaving in the morning," Blaine said. "I thought I should come say goodbye."

"You've been absent these past weeks. Mr. Hummel was here every day for a fortnight, and yet you were not." His thick eyebrow nearly disappeared into his round cap as he spoke.

"We… had a fight," Blaine replied honestly.

"I imagined such a thing," de Crano said with a nod. He began organizing supplies and mixing his paint with a chemical that stung Blaine's nose. He covered his nose with his sleeve until the odor dissipated; the painter didn't seem to mind as he leaned forward, squinting to inspect the paint. "He was quite put out."

Blaine dropped his arm. "He was?"

"Mmmhmm." The old man did not look up, instead picking up a fat paintbrush and dabbing it in the now-thinned emerald paint.

"What did he say?" Blaine inquired, trying not to sound too desperate for the answer, even though his heart had begun racing, threatening to thud right out of his chest.

"I should not betray his confidence," Mr. de Crano said into his canvas. "But why don't you tell me your side."

Blaine sighed and seated himself on a nearby stool. "There's not much to tell," he said. "We quarreled, and he's gone. End of story."

"Why is that the end?"

"He said his goodbyes, and I have not heard from him since. I think his intent was clear."

"Do you really think that's where your tale ends?"

"I'm afraid so," Blaine said, leaning on the drawing table to his right. His elbow struck the corner of a canvas, causing him to wince. As he rubbed the sore spot, he glanced down at the offending object and saw his own likeness staring up at him.

"Is that… ?" Blaine couldn't finish the sentence, his vision blurred behind the watery veil of his own tears.

"Mr. Hummel painted that. Left it with me. Said it reminded him of broken heart."

"He said that?" Blaine said, caressing the fine brush strokes as if they were Kurt himself. At Mr. de Crano's silent confirmation he swallowed heavily. "Then you know the truth of us?" It was not a question really, and so there was no answer.

They were both silent for a few moments, giving Blaine a chance to study the painting. It was a simple portrait — just his head and shoulders, the edge of his cravat fading into the edge of the canvas — but the detail in the amber of his eyes was astonishing. Blaine knew the way the light reflected golden in his eyes from gazing upon his own face in the mirror, but there was something almost captivating about the way Kurt had painted him. Was that what Kurt saw when he looked upon him? It was no wonder Kurt looked at him with such adoration if he got that in return. But all Blaine could think of was the things he had said to Kurt that night. The things _Kurt_ had said. He felt sick.

As if he had read Blaine's mind, Felix approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Sometimes, my young friend, we say things we do not mean when we are hurting. It does not mean we do not care. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"But he's gone, and I'm forbidden to see him," Blaine said, turning his head to look up at the painter.

"Gone does not mean forever. Not if you don't want it to."

"I'm afraid I don't have a choice, Mr. de Crano."

"There is always a choice," Felix replied.

"You sound like Kurt," Blaine said, his voice cracking on a choked-back laugh.

"Then he is smarter than I thought."

* * *

The trip back to New York was long and lonely, despite the fact that Blaine was sharing a Pullman car with the Fabrays. Leaving St. Augustine made him miss Kurt anew, as if they had only just parted that day. Blaine's heart ached to be near him, and even as the train moved him closer to Kurt's physical being, he knew they would remain far apart.

With Quinn still bristling from Blaine's misstep the day before, he found himself sitting alone, staring out the window, watching the marshland give way to the red earth of Georgia and thinking about what Mr. de Crano had said.

Did he have a choice? Could it really be that simple?

Blaine didn't even know where Kurt lived — not that it would be terribly difficult to find out. But what then? Would they simply marry Rachel and Quinn and pretend all their lives that they were something they were not? Not to mention, if Blaine were ever caught with Kurt again, his family would disown him. He couldn't do that to Quinn.

He was interrupted from his thoughts when Mr. Fabray took the seat opposite him and offered him a cigarette.

"No, thank you," Blaine said.

Mr. Fabray shrugged and lit one for himself. "Ready to get back to the city?" he asked, pocketing his matchsafe.

"Mmm, I suppose," Blaine said, giving him a half smile and returning his gaze to the window, the landscape blurring into a nondescript haze of green and brown as it passed by.

"Chin up, Anderson. You'll have plenty of time to yourself before you're saddled with a wife," he laughed raucously as he nudged Blaine's knee, giving weight to his lewd meaning.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Blaine said uncooperatively.

"Oh, come on… you're a warm-blooded young man," Mr. Fabray said. "There's no shame in finding a soft body to warm your bed until you settle down."

Blaine felt his stomach churn, scarcely believing a father would give his permission to his daughter's intended in such a manner. "I assure you, it's not necessary," he spat.

"Suit yourself," Mr. Fabray said. He leaned back and took a drag of his cigarette, watching Blaine as he exhaled. "You're a queer sort, aren't you? Your grandfather warned me, but I told him he was being overly cautious."

"Sir?"

"Please, Blaine, we're practically family. Call me Russell." He twirled the end of his blond mustache around his index finger. It seemed a comically villainous gesture under the circumstances.

Blaine bit his lip to keep from laughing. "Russell," he said, leveling his future father-in-law with a reproachful look, "why don't you tell me what's really on your mind?"

"And smart, too… that's good." A leering smile found it's way to Mr. Fabray's face. He sucked on the end of his cigarette and leaned forward in his seat. "I want you to come work with me. Run the factory. I'm getting on in years, and I'd like my Lucy to have a comfortable life."

"I– Well, that is… thank you?" Blaine said.

"No need to thank me. This is as much for my benefit as yours. I need the help, and this keeps it in the family – saves me from hiring some ladder-climbing cretin."

"I'm sorry… I meant _no,_ thank you," Blaine said softly. "I have an offer from Mr. Flagler to run his New York hotels, and at any rate, I wouldn't know how to run a factory."

"You know as much as you do about running a hotel," Russell scoffed. "Don't be imprudent."

"No, really. I thank you for your faith in me, but it's not right for me."

Russell Fabray's pale face flushed scarlet, his nostrils flaring comically. "You think I give two cents what's right for _you_?" he hissed. "I will not have my daughter married to a penniless writer and begging her family for handouts because he wasn't man enough to provide for her properly."

Clenching his hands into fists, Blaine breathed harshly through his nose, trying to keep himself from striking Mr. Fabray. "I can provide for my wife," he said, lowering his voice so it didn't carry to where Quinn and her mother were seated a few feet away. "I don't need your help."

"Needed or not, you will accept it." Mr. Fabray stood, his shadow falling over Blaine like a menacing specter. "This is not open for discussion."

Before Blaine could reply, he was gone. It didn't really matter much; there was nothing for him to say. It was just another brick in the wall that had surrounded him, caging him like a wild animal without the means to fight back. And really, there was no point in trying.

The sunlight glistened off the river they were crossing, sparkling like the facets of the diamond Quinn wore on her finger — like Kurt's eyes.

He wiped the memory from his mind, no longer wishing to remember what his life had been for the brief time he had known true love. It was better if he numbed himself to the beauty of the world and simply allowed it to blur together like the landscape racing by his window. This was his fate: a cold heart and a muted existence. He only hoped Kurt would fare better.

* * *

Blaine's Aunt Clarissa met them at the train station, a bundle of lush roses and a smaller clutch of daisies in her plump arms. His father's sister, Clarissa looked very much like the Anderson side of the family with her piercing blue eyes and her dark hair, but her temperament was altogether different. She had always treated Blaine as a favorite, doting on him as a child and befriending him when he was grown.

"Rissy," he effused, gripping her in a big hug. "Father didn't tell me you were meeting us."

"I thought I'd surprise you," she said, her perfectly straight teeth gleaming through her smile. "And meet your beautiful fiancée."

"Of course," Blaine said, feeling lighter than he'd felt in days. "Where are my manners? Darling, this is my Aunt Clarissa."

"Mrs. Gibb," Clarissa said, extending a hand to Quinn. "You must be Miss Fabray."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Gibb," Quinn said, her smile and small curtsy the picture of propriety.

"Oh, she's good," Clarissa said, nudging Blaine with her shoulder. She turned back to Quinn and presented her with the daisies. "I also brought roses for your darling mother," she added, craning her neck to look for Quinn's escorts. "Where is she?"

"She insisted the porters would mishandle the artwork she bought and wanted to see it unloaded personally. She'll be along shortly," Quinn said.

"I don't blame her," Clarissa said. "The last time I sailed from Europe, they broke a gilded mirror I had bought for my parlor. What an aggravation getting it replaced."

"Oh, how dreadful," Quinn said, looking genuinely empathetic.

"I just threw money at it like I always do," Clarissa said with a laugh.

Blaine laughed openly for the first time in days. His aunt's sense of humor and down-to-earth way of expressing herself had always endeared Blaine to her. Although, it astounded him that she had come from the same family as his father and grandfather. She was nothing like them.

Quinn, laughing nervously, as if she didn't know how to respond to a woman like Clarissa Gibb, smiled suddenly, looking relieved. "Here comes my mother," she said.

"Lucy dear, we should get going," her mother said as she approached on the arm of Mr. Fabray.

"Of course, Mother," she said. "Mr. Anderson was just introducing me to his aunt."

"Russell Fabray… Pleased to meet you," Quinn's father said, extending his hand.

"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Fabray," she said, and turned to Judith. "And this must be your lovely wife." The ladies shook hands and Clarissa presented Mrs. Fabray with the roses.

"They're lovely, Mrs. Gibb," she said.

Blaine fidgeted a little, wiggling his toes inside his shoes and pulling his watch from his pocket to check the time. "Aunt Clarissa, we should get going if we want to make it back in time for dinner. I'm sure Mother has planned a feast for me."

"It was supposed to be a surprise," Clarissa said. "At least act surprised. She'll murder me for spoiling it."

"Of course," Blaine replied, kissing her rosy cheek.

He turned to Russell Fabray and held out his hand. "Russell, thank you for everything. I'll call on you some time next week."

"Think about my offer, Blaine," Russell said, squeezing his hand tighter than was necessary.

Blaine grimaced, but did not back down. "Certainly," he said, forcing a smile on his face. He turned to Mrs. Fabray and tipped his hat before addressing Quinn. "Darling, I'll see you soon. I promise." He leaned forward to kiss her gloved hand.

She smiled demurely and followed her parents to their waiting carriage, leaving Blaine alone with his aunt. He exhaled loudly and offered his arm to Clarissa, turning on the charm along with his thousand-watt smile. "Well, my lady, shall we depart?"

"Look who picked up a few tricks down south," she said a teasing glint in her blue eyes as she looped her arm through his.

"You know me," Blaine said. "Always adapting."

"Why don't you lay off the put-on airs and just be my little Birdie?"

"As you wish, Rissy," he said. He'd called her that since he had first toddled into her arms at three years old when she'd returned from an extended trip abroad to meet her youngest nephew for the first time. His tiny mouth couldn't say her name, and it had stuck ever since.

"So tell me about Miss Lucy," she said. "A snobbish, empty-headed socialite?"

"She likes to be called Quinn," Blaine corrected, "and no. She's actually quite well-read, and whip-smart too."

"She's a proper lady," Clarissa said. "Does she know she's marrying a hopeless cad?"

"I'm sure her father has warned her," he said.

Clarissa laughed, but Blaine scowled, unable to shake the feeling of unease that had settled in his gut the moment Mr. Fabray had approached him on the train.

"What's the trouble, Birdie? You look positively despondent."

"I'm just tired from travel," he said, smiling through the lie. "Let's get home before mother bursts out of her corset from worry."

"Quite right," Clarissa said with a laugh. "She's probably pacing with that horrible blue fan of hers."

"I forgot about that old thing," he said, helping his aunt into the cab of their carriage. He took the seat opposite her and jumped up when he sat on something hard. Reaching behind him for the offending object, he pulled out a small, familiar book, and his breath caught in his throat.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that," Clarissa said. "I was reading that while I was waiting for the train. Those dreadful things are never on time."

Blaine blinked down at the book in his hands, unable to put it down, but equally unable to speak.

"Blaine?"

He shook his head to clear it. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't know you liked Wilde."

Clarissa shrugged. "I'd never read him before, but after that play opened to rave reviews in London on Valentine's Day, it's all the ladies would talk about."

Staring again at the cream-colored volume, he felt his insides flutter as if Kurt were standing before him. He clutched the book tighter and tighter until his fingers ached. He could feel his aunt's eyes on him, but he didn't look up.

"I read in the paper yesterday that Mr. Wilde is on trial in London… for gross indecency or some such nonsense." Clarissa waved a gloved hand as if it were unthinkable to try a man for any crime at all. "It's probably those stuffy English wanting to make a point, but really I don't see the fuss. That book is a little fantastical to be sure, but hardly scandalous or obscene."

Blaine let her words wash over him, but he only half listened as they made their way to his home on 38th Street.

He somehow willed his way through dinner as his mother doted and his father all but ignored him in favor of bragging about Cooper's accomplishments. By the time Blaine finally excused himself, under the pretense of exhaustion from his journey, he was positively aching with grief. Finally alone in his room, Blaine retrieved his copy of "The Picture of Dorian Gray" from a shelf and thumbed through it until he found the passage Kurt had read to him on the beach that day.

His eyes flew across the page as he begged the words to pull him into the memory, but he could no longer hear the gentle lilt of Kurt's voice nor remember the rhythm of his speech. Blaine closed his eyes and tried to imagine the way the sun had caught in Kurt's hair and turned it golden, but the memory was gone — lost under the weight of obligation and propriety.

He slammed the book shut and clutched it to his chest as he wept.

* * *

The next morning found Blaine red-eyed and aching as he sat in his Aunt Clarissa's parlor, sipping black coffee and telling her about his trip. He'd also presented her with a gift: one of Mr. de Crano's watercolors. It was a simple still life, a small arrangement of red flowers in a blue pitcher, but something about it had caught his eye — the simplicity of it reminded him of Clarissa the moment he saw it.

"It's wonderful," Clarissa gushed, kissing his cheek. "Thanks, Birdie. I'm going to hang it right here in my front parlor where I can make all the other ladies green with envy."

"Mr. de Crano is famous for his portraits and landscapes, but I really liked his watercolors best. I knew you would too."

"It's lovely, dear," she said, leaning it against a wall. "Now why don't you tell me what had you up all night?"

"Is it that obvious?" Blaine asked wearily.

"You never were very good at hiding things from me," she said, chucking her nephew under the chin. "Want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly." Blaine took a sip of his coffee. "But Grandfather changed the terms of his will… and my trust."

Clarissa let out a long whistle. "You must have done something pretty scandalous, Birdie."

"Sometimes I think he just can't stand to see anyone happy."

"Well, maybe it's not as bad as all that. Why don't you go see that lawyer friend of yours and have him look it over?"

Blaine felt a small spark of hope for the first time in weeks.

* * *

The door to Sam Evans' office was fairly nondescript, but Blaine had been to the building many times. Sam was a friend of the family, and only a few years older than Blaine. His father had been the Anderson family's lawyer for decades, and when Sam had finished his degree, Blaine had turned management of his affairs over to his friend. The fact that it took him partially out from under his father's — and grandfather's — thumb was yet another draw, but he also trusted Sam implicitly.

"Blaine!" Sam exclaimed. "When did you traipse back into town?" He pulled Blaine into a brusque hug that caught him off guard. He fell forward into Sam's arms and had to catch himself on the man's broad chest.

As he tried to find his footing, he groped at Sam's torso, causing his face to flame hotly when he felt the rippling of well-defined muscle underneath.

Blaine had grown accustomed to the extraordinary level of physicality inherent in a friendship with Sam, but even so, the shock of two large arms around him was enough to rattle any man — especially when the arms belonged to someone as attractive as Sam Evans.

"Uh, the train got in yesterday," Blaine mumbled into the thick wool of Sam's waistcoat. He tried to pull away, but Sam had him all but trapped. When he finally relaxed into the friendly embrace, Sam released him, and Blaine made a show of straightening his tie and smoothing down his well-pomaded hair. "I was tied up with family business all yesterday, though. Hope it's not too much of a shock… my calling on you without warning."

"Not at all," Sam said. "I've always got time for you, my friend." He gestured for Blaine to sit as he took the chair behind the desk. "So what brings you by? I have a feeling this isn't a social call."

Sam took out a cigarette case, offering one to Blaine. Leaning forward to take it from Sam's hands, Blaine sighed heavily.

"No, it's not a social call," he said. "I have a business matter I need to discuss with you."

"I'm all ears," he said, lighting his cigarette and shaking out the match. Blaine watched the smoke curl around his blond hair, turning his eyes a pinkish hue around the edges. Sam always complained that the smoke irritated his eyes, yet his habit continued. It confounded Blaine.

He took a drag off his own cigarette and picked at the frayed threads on the arm of his chair. "My grandfather changed the terms of his will… and more unfortunately, my trust. I need you to look it over to see if there's a way out of it."

"What did he change?"

"Sam, we're friends _first_ , right?" Blaine paused and took in Sam's befuddled expression. "What I mean is, anything I tell you stays in this room and this room only? You don't repeat it to anyone at any time for any reason."

"Of course, Blaine… you can trust me."

"You have to promise me, Sam. Swear on your mother's life."

Sam's eyebrows furrowed slightly, and his full lips pursed into a luscious pout, that under different circumstances might have distracted Blaine from the task at hand. But he had to tell someone, and Sam was not only a trusted friend, but an expert at legal matters. "Please, Sam," he begged.

"I swear it, Blaine, but you'd better tell me quickly because you're starting to worry me."

Blaine nodded, taking a thoughtful drag of his cigarette. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and looked Sam square in the eye. "I'm in love," he stated plainly.

Sam exhaled audibly. "Is that all?" he asked, beaming. "I know about Miss Fabray, you gold goat. Your father came by to see me last week." Sam leaned back in his chair, laughing.

"Sam, it's not Miss Fabray."

That caught Sam's attention. He leaned forward in his chair and placed his palms flat on the desk. "Then why are you marrying Miss Fabray? Does this have something to do with the changes to the trust?"

"Yes," Blaine said without elaboration.

Sam sighed, stubbing out his cigarette and picking up a pen. He dipped it into the well and tapped the tip over the edge to release the extra ink. Holding the pen midair, poised to take notes on whatever needed to be done, he said, "What's her name? Do I need to set her up in an apartment—?"

"No, Sam, you misunderstand," Blaine interrupted. " _His_ name… is Kurt."

The pen felt to the desk with a clatter, a splotch of ink landing on Sam's cuff. Blaine watched the spot expand as it soaked in, the edges reminding him of a spider building its web. He wondered if he could trust Sam with this information after all, but supposed it was already too late to worry about that now.

"It's… uh, a… you're in love with… a _man_?" Sam managed to get out finally.

Blaine dropped his head in his hands and nodded, unable to look Sam in the eye.

"Well, that changes things," Sam said.

Rising to his feet and still not making eye contact, Blaine mumbled, "I'm sorry I troubled you. I will find myself a new lawyer to handle my affairs." He grabbed his hat from the side table, and bowed in Sam's direction. He was halfway out the door when he heard Sam call out.

"Damnit, Blaine," he said. "At least give me a minute to absorb this."

Blaine wheeled around so fast it made his head spin. "You're not disgusted?" he asked.

Sam looked down at his desk for a moment, picking up his dropped pen and refreshing the ink as he talked. "Well, I can't say it's something I've ever really considered, but I'm no saint. Who am I to judge what's in a man's heart?" He paused and leveled Blaine with a kind gaze. "And I know you're a good man, Blaine. This doesn't change that."

Blaine's vision blurred as tears threatened to spill. Pressing his fingers to his eyes to stem the flow, he sniffed loudly. "Honestly, of the two, I think you're the better man," he said with a laugh.

"Sit down, Anderson," Sam said, pointing to the seat he'd just vacated, "and tell me about the sticky situation you've gotten yourself into now."

Blaine relayed both the nature of his relationship with Kurt and the details of the revised trust, including how he was not allowed to see Kurt again if he wanted to keep his money. To his credit, Sam never once flinched or had any reaction to the things Blaine told him — not even the night his grandfather caught them in the baths.

When he finished his tale, Sam sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "Well, you've certainly stuck your foot in it this time," he said.

"Never mind the chastisement," Blaine said. "Can you help me?"

"I think so," he replied. "I'll need to see a copy of your grandfather's documents. Do you have the name of his lawyer in St. Augustine?"

"I can get it," Blaine replied.

"Good," Sam said, nodding. "I think you're safe to resume your normal _activities_ … provided that you're careful."

"I don't want to resume anything," Blaine said. "I want to be with Kurt."

"Even so, I think it's best if you don't go looking for this man," Sam said. As Blaine opened his mouth to protest, he added. "At least for now."

Sam began rooting through some of the stacks on his desk, checking the spines of a few legal volumes that were strewn about. "It must be in the library," he said to himself as he continued to search. When he didn't find whatever he was looking for, he turned to Blaine. "I'll be right back. Would you like something to drink while you wait?'

"No, I'm fine," Blaine said. "I see you have the morning paper; I can keep myself busy."

"It should only be a minute or two. I want to check something."

"Of course," Blaine said, and he unfolded the paper. There was nothing much of note in that day's edition — a few robberies, a deadly fire that gutted a fireworks factory in New Jersey, and a piece on the new library — but then he got to the wedding announcements.

_Mrs. Carole Hudson, widow of Mr. Christopher Hudson and formerly of Stratford, Conn., wed Mr. Burton W. Hummel of 206 E. 21st. The ceremony was performed at the Calvary Episcopal Church by Rev. Jonathan Thomas._

_The bride wore a stunning silk gown designed by Mr. Kurt Hummel, the groom's son, who was also the best man. Miss Rachel Berry was the maid of honor. She wore pale green silk. A reception followed the ceremony at the home of Mrs. Hiram Berry on E 18th._

His breath caught in his throat at just the sight of Kurt's name in print. It took a few moments for it to register that Mr. Hummel had married the woman he had been courting in St. Augustine.

Without thinking, Blaine reached across the desk and snatched up the pen that Sam had been using. On a blank sheet of paper he jotted down the Hummels' address and shoved the paper into his pocket.

He had Kurt's address, and he hadn't even been home a day. At this rate, he'd be penniless in less than a month.

* * *

Standing in the shadows across the street from the Hummel residence, Blaine watched the comings and goings of Burt and Carole Hummel, but there was no sight of Kurt. He spent most of his afternoons watching the front door of number 206, hoping to catch a glimpse of Kurt, but it was nearly a full week before he appeared.

Kurt was wearing a butter-colored overcoat that hung past his knees, and he carried a silver-tipped walking stick that he swung dramatically with each step. He looked lighter than the last time Blaine had seen him; there was a spring in his step he hadn't expected.

Flicking his cigarette into the street, Blaine watched as Kurt approached the steps to his father's home. His heart lurched in an unexpected way when Kurt turned his head and Blaine caught sight of his chiseled jawline. It looked as if his graceful neck had grown even longer in the few weeks since he'd left Blaine retching up whiskey in the Ponce's bathroom. Even at a distance Blaine could pick out the details of Kurt's face that he hadn't realized he'd forgotten in such a short period of time: the tilt of his nose, his sharp cheekbones, the contrast of his pale skin against the deep chestnut of his hair.

Fighting an ill-advised urge to run across the street, Blaine took two steps backward, ducking behind a carriage and pressing a palm to his chest in an attempt to calm his rapid heartbeat and ragged breathing.

When he crouched down to peer out between the spokes of the carriage wheel, Kurt was gone, and the awkward position he took to do so caught the ire of a raven-haired woman in slate blue as she climbed into the cab. Righting his posture, Blaine tipped his hat to her and made his way further down the sidewalk to wait for Kurt to reemerge.

Blaine's neck was stiff and his feet ached by the time Kurt exited number 206, but he jumped to his feet and quickly ducked into a doorway to conceal his features as if he had only just arrived. Kurt took no mind of anything on the street, humming quietly to himself as he headed toward 3rd Avenue. Blaine waited until Kurt was well ahead of him before following, and he stayed at least half a block away as they made their way southwest down the street. Keeping an eye on that bright overcoat, he managed to track Kurt for at least ten blocks before he realized they were headed toward the Bowery. Blaine's heart thudded in his chest at the thought of Kurt frequenting the kind of establishments found there.

The guilt he felt at spying on his former lover was overshadowed by his need to know what had become of him. When Kurt stopped in front of a nondescript brick façade, Blaine craned his neck to see the full span of the building. It was three stories tall and there were several windows with effeminate-looking boys hanging out and calling into the street. Blaine had seen the fairies, of course, but chose to spend his time in bath houses rather than on the Bowery where the trade was more conspicuous.

He watched Kurt enter the building, but did not venture further. It was growing late, and he'd be expected home soon. He was having dinner with the Fabrays and still had to change clothes. Reluctantly, he headed back up 3rd Avenue.

But Blaine returned to Columbia Hall on several occasions, once following Kurt to a nearby shop only to find out that Kurt was the proprietor and lived upstairs. He watched as men of all walks of life called on his place of business and exited looking more dapper than when they arrived. He didn't know what to make of it all, so he kept watching.

And then one day he saw Kurt in the company of a familiar young man.

The blond-haired boy wore clothes in the fashion that Kurt had taken to wearing, but the loose curls of his hair were what really gave them both away. Kurt had kept his own hair short, but otherwise the two were practically a matched set in their bright colors and conspicuous flowers pinned to their breasts.

Blaine saw them together several times, always laughing and smiling in such a way that made Blaine want to punch Kurt's companion in the face. He was living the life Blaine could have had if he'd been brave enough, and he had Kurt. That hurt the most: Kurt had moved on.

One afternoon in mid May, Blaine watched as Kurt reentered his shop and his companion headed up the street, but when he reached the corner, he paused and took in Blaine's presence.

"You there," he called out. "We haven't done anything illegal, and I'd appreciate it if you'd mind your own business."

"I'm not watching you," Blaine lied. He searched his brain for some reason he'd be in that spot, but nothing came to mind. Fumbling in his pocket for his cigarette case, he tried to ignore the young man's presence.

But he took a few steps in Blaine's direction, swinging his cane boldly. "I've seen you standing in that spot, every day for the last six days. You're not fooling anyone." He lips quirked into a droll smile as he approached. "I know you," he said. "You're that gentleman I saw with Kurt in Atlanta."

"I don't know what you mean," Blaine said, ducking his head in a futile attempt to conceal his face while lighting his cigarette.

"No, you're him. I remember you," the man said pointing at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see Kurt," Blaine said, the words tumbling from his mouth along with a puff of smoke and falling before him like so many loose marbles.

"Well, at least you're direct," he said holding out his hand in greeting. "I'm Chandler Kiehl."

Blaine shook his hand. "Blaine Anderson."

"Kurt is doing well, you know," Chandler said.

"I always knew he would," Blaine replied, squinting as the sun broke free from a cloud and obscured his vision. Something in him crumbled when the warmth caressed his face, as if it had broken the dam he'd built around his heart to stem the tide of heartbreak. "I really should be going," he choked out.

"Want me to tell Kurt you stopped by?" Chandler asked, a playful smirk making Blaine's stomach turn.

"I think it might be better for us both if you didn't," Blaine said. "Good day to you."

He tipped his hat and set off down the street, desperate to put distance between himself and Kurt's new lover, but before he could get more than a dozen steps away, he heard Chandler's voice.

"Maybe it's better for him if you just move on with your life," he said.

Blaine turned and nodded once, and set off quicker than before, biting back stinging tears as he broke into a run.

* * *

By the end of May, Blaine had mostly returned to his own dreary routine. His days were spent listening to his mother, Mrs. Fabray, and Quinn planning the wedding, chattering about meaningless things like guest lists and the custom gown Quinn would wear. In the evenings, he frequented the bathhouse to meet up with men whom he had no desire to get to know, but it was just another way to dull his senses to the only memory of Kurt that remained: his pained face as they parted. The sharp stab of heartbreak had subsided to a dull ache in Blaine's chest that he numbed with cheap liquor and the company of too many men.

Then one night in June, after Blaine had glutted himself on the company of a man who called himself Harry, but whom Blaine suspected had made his name up for the occasion, he joined Edgar and his latest companion in one of the larger pools at Everard's. Harry, much to Blaine's chagrin, began prattling on about everything from fashion to politics. Blaine tried to tune him out.

"Did you hear about Oscar Wilde?" Harry asked as he lit a cigarette and passed it to Blaine. The name had gotten Blaine's attention, though, and he nearly dropped the cigarette in the water.

"The playwright?" Edgar's friend asked, his hand absently stroking Edgar's arm as if nothing out of the ordinary had been said.

"Yep. Convicted of sodomy. Two years hard labor."

"Thank God we don't live in England," Edgar said.

"Indeed," Harry replied. "According to the papers, he was so in love he said he'd rather go to prison than give up his lover. Can you imagine?"

Blaine could suddenly hear nothing but the rush of his own blood in his ears. Loving someone so much that you'd rather die or go to prison? There was only one person he could think of. Only one person he needed to see.

"You feeling alright, Blaine?" Edgar asked.

But Blaine was out of the water and wrapping a towel around his waist before Edgar could finish his sentence. His need to find Kurt was unbearable. If Oscar Wilde could go to jail for the man he loved, surely Blaine could give up a silly trust fund. Suddenly the money mattered little, his only concern to find Kurt and tell him how he felt.

Sliding on the wet tiles, he gripped the towel tightly about his waist as he stumbled toward the changing rooms.

He was dressed and on the street faster than he could have imagined, and by the time he reached Kurt's building, Blaine had devised a plan. Thankfully he could see the lamplight burning in the window of the apartment over Kurt's small shop. Grateful he was still awake, Blaine climbed the stairs two at a time and rapped sharply on Kurt's door. He heard a clamor from within and a muffled curse before Kurt flung the door open, wrapped in a dressing gown that covered his wrinkled pajamas.

"Blaine!"

"I know I said no contact, but I had to see you."

"Did anyone see you come up?"

"Kurt, it's after midnight. No one is out there."

"Right….right. Come in." Kurt stepped aside and gestured for Blaine to enter. The light from Kurt's oil lamp flickered against the wall and cast harsh shadows around the room. It felt ominous and wrong. Blaine wanted to pull Kurt into his arms and never let go. He collapsed into one of Kurt's wingback chairs under the weight of his own fear. What if Kurt rejected him?

"Blaine, what's wrong?" Kurt pleaded, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach out and comfort him. It nearly broke Blaine's heart all over again.

"I would go to prison for you," Blaine said. "Or face the gallows. I love you that much."

Kurt sank down in the chair across from Blaine. "I know," he said simply. "So would I. I've been thinking about it all day."

"You heard about Oscar Wilde, then?"

"It was in the paper."

"It made me think of us, and what I would do if we had gotten caught last winter, and I knew. I just knew." Blaine paused and took a deep breath, leaning forward in his seat and itching to pull Kurt into his arms. "You are the love of my life, Kurt. No matter who we marry. I'll always love you, and I don't want to give you up."

Kurt shook his head almost violently, as if he were trying to clear Blaine from his memory. He looked sad and broken and utterly determined to hold his ground.

"Blaine, we talked about this. It's too dangerous."

"I don't care," Blaine said simply. "I need you; I can't live without you. I've tried."

Kurt's flawless posture finally crumbled as he sagged back into the soft billowing fabric of the chair and let his body be supported by an external force, as if that were all he could manage.

"I was just starting to forget how your lips taste," Kurt murmured.

When Blaine looked up, he couldn't focus on Kurt because his vision had blurred from the tears pooling in his eyes. Kurt had forgotten him. Maybe he had misjudged the depth of Kurt's love. But then Kurt spoke, his voice barely a whisper, "I hated that I forgot."

Blaine sat up and reached for Kurt, only managing to grasp his leg just above the knee. "Would you like a reminder?"

He saw, rather than heard, Kurt's breath catch in his throat as tears threatened to spill. "Blaine…" he began.

"We just have to be careful," he said as he peppered Kurt's face with soft kisses.

"We tried that," Kurt said, almost whimpering with effort. His eyes remained closed as he talked. "We'll get caught, and then they'll really take you from me."

"But I'd rather that than not have you at all,' Blaine said. "This is what I'm trying to tell you."

"How will we explain it? We don't even have the same friends."

"I have an idea," Blaine said.

Kurt pulled back from Blaine and looked at him questioningly. His eyes raked Blaine's face searching for answers. He looked so devastatingly handsome, Blaine couldn't help but smile.

"Quinn's wedding gown," he said. "She wants a custom design. And I'm going to recommend this wonderful tailor I know."

Kurt's eyes went wide at Blaine's words. Blaine cupped Kurt's face in his hands.

"This way, we both get something we want, my love. You'll get the chance to design for high society and I'll get you. No one will question you coming and going from my house while you're working on the dress, and I'll find lots of excuses to come here. And then later, I'll talk Quinn's father into investing in your business. He'll insist I manage it. He won't want anything to do with women's fashions. And then, my darling, we'll finally get to be together."

"It all sounds too good to be true," Kurt said, rising to his feet and pacing around his small living room. "How can you be sure this will work?"

"Because we don't have any other options," Blaine said. "And I'm a man who gets what he wants. Haven't you figured that out by now?"

Blaine strode across the room to bring himself face to face with Kurt.

"What about what I want?"

"Kurt, I'll give you anything. Just say the word, my love." Blaine gripped at Kurt's shoulders and implored him with his eyes. "Just tell me what you want."

Kurt's blue eyes sparkled as he smiled and pressed his lips to Blaine's. "I just want you," he said. "Forever and always."


	17. Chapter 17

"Ow!" Quinn exclaimed. "You're sticking me."

"Well, hold still," Kurt chastised.

For weeks he had been visiting Quinn at the Fabray home, collaborating with her on designs, taking and re-taking measurements to accommodate each tweak and change, and they were finally having the first fitting. Mrs. Fabray had initially thought it odd for Kurt to be undertaking his work inside someone's home, but Blaine had reasoned with her that because Kurt's shop was in an unsavory part of town, he would feel more comfortable if they conducted the fittings elsewhere. As predicted, Judith had extended a gracious invitation to Kurt, practically guaranteeing Kurt and Blaine close proximity until the wedding.

Since Blaine had shown up unannounced at Kurt's apartment, things were beginning to feel like St. Augustine all over again; Blaine finding the odd afternoon to shirk his obligations — stolen moments in coat closets, discreet trips to the baths, luncheons where they didn't actually eat — all under the guise of business meetings at Kurt's shop or visits to Sam's office, both appropriate excuses for Blaine's frequent absences.

Even though they couldn't be together every moment, and Blaine still intended to marry, Kurt actually liked working with Quinn; it turned out they shared a similar aesthetic and the few features she had asked for worked well with the design Kurt had dreamed up. The oversized sleeves were the height of fashion, but it was the details that Kurt added that really made the dress unique.

"Mr. Hummel, I still can't quite believe I'm getting married, let alone wearing this exquisite gown." Quinn paused as she studied her own reflection in the mirror. "You don't think the sleeves are _too_ big, do you?"

Looking up at her from where he was kneeling to adjust the length of the hem, Kurt nearly spit out the pins he held between his lips and yet somehow still managed to speak around them. "I thought you said you trusted me."

"I do," she said. "I just don't trust my own taste." She smiled down at Kurt in her wonderfully self-deprecating way that he had grown to admire.

"Your taste is fine," Kurt said. "You hired me, didn't you?"

Quinn's bright laughter was almost musical, her soft blonde curls falling to frame her face as she ducked her head behind her hand. "I'm going to miss your wit when we're done with this dress business."

Kurt hid his frown behind the folds of Quinn's dress. "I'm going to miss you as well, Miss Fabray." But the truth was, he would miss Blaine even more.

Kurt watched as Quinn studied her face in the mirror for a moment, tilting her head to the side and squinting her green eyes.

"What's the trouble?" Kurt asked.

"Do you think it needs… something?"

Standing up, Kurt looked her over from head to toe. It was a simple design, but far from basic. The champagne-colored silk was decorated with a damask pattern, and the sleeves were nearly as big around as Quinn's waist, but were tailored tightly below the elbow and flared out at the wrist to reveal a layer of decadent lace peeking out from beneath the silk. It was stunning, but Quinn was right; the dress needed something — or maybe _he_ needed it to have something. Kurt leaned in to examine the fabric, as if the secret he was hoping to unlock was hidden in the beading or perhaps the seams. As he leaned in, he caught a familiar scent.

"Your perfume," Kurt said, inhaling deeply again. "It's…" He furrowed his brow and sniffed again. "It's so familiar, but I can't quite place it."

Quinn beamed. "It's orange blossom. I bought it in St. Augustine. Isn't it divine?"

"It's my favorite," Kurt said. "The orange groves were positively drunk with it."

"Blaine said practically the same thing," Quinn said, looking amused.

"Did he?" Kurt said, his voice coming out high and breathy.

Quinn chuckled and patted Kurt on the shoulder. "I swear sometimes you two share a mind." She turned away and began running her hands down the front of her dress, not paying Kurt any mind for the moment.

Suddenly Kurt was back in the orange groves adjacent to the Ponce, the night air chilly and damp; Blaine's eyes sparkling in the moonlight. He wanted to stay in the memory forever, but he was pulled from it with a spark of an idea.

"Orange blossoms," Kurt murmured.

"Yes…" Quinn said, looking confused. "What about them?"

"You should wear orange blossoms," he said, grinning broadly.

"Do you think that would be fashionable?"

"Oh, it's exceedingly fashionable, and not to mention good luck. We can put some in your hair, or near the neck of the dress…" Kurt trailed off as he set about fussing over Quinn, imaging where he could decorate her gown with the tiny flowers. "It will be so perfect, considering where you met."

He barely realized he was talking to himself more than Quinn.

Kurt found himself uncharacteristically quiet for the remainder of their appointment, only speaking when he needed her to lift an arm or to ask her to stand up straighter.

They had just finished the fitting when the Fabrays' butler announced Blaine's arrival.

"Let him in," Kurt said. "Miss Fabray is decent."

But Blaine was already standing in the doorway, leaning on the frame and looking at Kurt through darkened eyes.

"Hello, Kurt," he said, his voice formal even as his eyes danced with desire and longing. "Good to see you again."

"Likewise," Kurt said, ducking his head when he heard Quinn reentering the room. Gathering his belongings, he focused on sticking pins back into the pincushion, while trying not to be too obvious that he was watching Blaine intently out of the corner of his eye.

"Mr. Anderson, I wasn't expecting you," Quinn said, her hand fluttering up to tuck a stray curl into her loose chignon.

He leaned in to kiss Quinn on the cheek. "Ah, orange blossom," he said. "My favorite."

Quinn glanced at Kurt and the two shared a conspiratorial chuckle.

"What's so funny?" Blaine asked, looking bemused.

"Just a conversation Mr. Hummel and I were having earlier," Quinn said. "Silly wedding nonsense. Nothing you need to concern yourself with, darling." She patted Blaine on the arm, but directed a smirk at Kurt.

Blaine looked back and forth between the two of them and shook his head. "Darling, do you mind if I talk to Mr. Hummel alone for a moment? It's regarding a financial matter."

"Of course not," Quinn said. "I'll wait for you in the parlor."

They both watched Quinn go, smiling after her; the moment the door swung closed, Blaine was gripping Kurt tightly in a fervent embrace.

"You look positively delectable in blue," Blaine said, nuzzling against Kurt's jaw. "Have I told you that?"

"Keep your voice down," Kurt urged, even as he smiled flirtatiously at Blaine. "But yes, you _have_ mentioned something. One might think I wore it on purpose." He walked his fingers up Blaine's shirtfront, tapping each button as he reached it. Blaine's chest began to rise and fall more noticeably under Kurt's hands.

"Well, one might suppose you know just how tempting you are," Blaine murmured.

"I'm tempted as well," Kurt said, purposefully inhaling the scent of Blaine's pomade. "If that helps."

"If only we were alone," Blaine said. "I would show you just how much you have tempted me, Mr. Hummel."

"You will have to come by my shop then," Kurt replied, tilting his head down to press his lips to Blaine's. "I'm sure you'll need a new suit for the wedding."

"I can come by next Monday," Blaine said. "Just after lunch?"

"How late can you stay? Should I make plans for dinner?"

"I'm not sure," Blaine said with a seductive pout, "but I don't think we'll have time to eat." His following smirk sent sparks of arousal through Kurt's body, and he fought to keep himself from acting on his impulses in the Fabrays' dining room.

"Stop that," he said, swatting at a hand that had somehow found its way to his waist. "Someone could walk in."

"Let them," Blaine whispered. He leaned in slowly and pressed his lips to Kurt's.

Kurt allowed himself to savor the sensation for a few moments, the warmth of Blaine's mouth, the scratch of his stubble, the flutter of his eyelashes as they pulled apart. Surging forward, Kurt embraced Blaine and tucked his head into the crook of his shoulder. "I love you," he said, practically breathing the words into Blaine's ear and letting his lips brush its outer edge.

Blaine squeezed Kurt tightly and said, "I love you too." When he pulled back, his eyes were shining brightly, as if he might cry. "I'll see you soon," he said, and then he headed for the parlor, leaving Kurt amidst the bolts of fabric and dozens of sketches.

Gathering up the last of his pins and stowing everything he could in his satchel, he followed Blaine into the parlor. He and Quinn were seated on a small settee, a full tea set laid out before them.

"Mr. Hummel, why don't you join us for tea," Quinn offered. "I didn't have much time, but there's plenty."

Kurt looked down at the table, laid out with several types of finger sandwiches and two types of cookies dusted in a thick coating of powdered sugar. If this was what she could do without "much time," Kurt knew their wedding would be an elaborate affair.

"I'm sorry, Miss Fabray, but I have an appointment back at my shop."

"Another time, perhaps?" she said.

"Indeed," Kurt replied, bowing to her. "Mr. Anderson," he added with a nod.

"I'll contact you about that suit," Blaine said, chancing a wink at him when Quinn turned her gaze in Kurt's direction.

"Of course," was all Kurt could manage to say. He saw himself out and headed back to his shop.

* * *

When Blaine arrived at Kurt's shop on Monday, he was barely through the door before Kurt was wrapped around him, kissing him fervently and clinging to him as if his life depended on it. Maybe in a way, it did.

On Blaine's second visit, Kurt actually started working on a suit for him, insisting that he couldn't get married in an "old" suit when Quinn would have a brand new dress for the occasion.

"Hold still," Kurt warned.

"I'm trying," Blaine said, "but this devastatingly handsome man has his hands all over me."

When Kurt looked up, Blaine winked at him. He returned his attentions to his work, but took extra care to allow his hands to linger against Blaine's thigh longer than possible, or to brush against his backside more times than absolutely necessary while he was pulling the fabric taut. And when he started working on the inseam, his let his hand trail upward until he could feel the weight of Blaine's hardening cock through the thick wool of the unfinished trousers. A soft moan escaped Blaine's lips.

"Kurt," he rasped.

"Sorry," Kurt said, feigning embarrassment. He glanced up at Blaine, taking care to look apologetic and wide-eyed. "My hand slipped."

"Many more slips like that, and I may be forced to have my way with you." Blaine's eyes fell closed as Kurt's fingertips brushed him again, and he dropped his head back with a gentle sigh.

"You're right," Kurt said, pulling his hand away. "I should really focus on this suit."

Blaine huffed out a ragged breath and straightened his back. They were playing a good-humored game of cat-and-mouse, testing each other's resolve, and Kurt was determined to emerge victorious. He curled his lips into a smirk, and ran his left hand up Blaine's calf, massaging the muscle as he worked the fabric into place.

Kurt had discovered that Blaine's calves were particularly sensitive on their trip to Atlanta. It had happened by accident, really. Kurt had offered to rub Blaine's back for him, and when faced with all that exposed skin, he couldn't help but explore — both with his hands and his mouth. When Kurt laved his tongue over the roundest part of his calf, Blaine practically convulsed beneath him, his back arching almost unnaturally as a sound sweeter than honey burst forth from his throat. It was imprinted on Kurt's brain like words on a page, and he never missed an opportunity to use that bit of information to his advantage.

A gasp from above let Kurt know he'd not underestimated his knowledge of Blaine's body. He looked up to find Blaine's eyes closed again and his lips parted in a familiar way.

"Do you want me to stop?" Kurt asked.

"I thought you said you wanted to finish the suit," Blaine said without opening his eyes, an audible tremor to his voice.

"Oh, silly me," Kurt replied with a smirk. He pulled his hand away and went back to marking the hem for the pants.

"I never said you had to stop."

Kurt looked up to find Blaine was now the one smirking. His own breath caught in his throat as Blaine reached down to caress his cheek. It felt so right to be back in Blaine's life, even though it might be fleeting. There was never any telling what the future would hold for them, but it seemed they had both decided it did not matter anymore. It had gone unspoken, their agreement, but nonetheless, it was clear to Kurt that Blaine's intent was to be with him as long as he could.

Kurt never brought up the unanswered letter, deciding Blaine's response had come in the form of his reappearance in Kurt's life. He didn't need words on a page when he had the man in flesh and blood before him.

"I love you," Kurt said suddenly.

"And I, you," Blaine replied, a bemused look in his eyes that questioned Kurt's need to say the words they'd spoken so many times before.

"I just wanted you to know," Kurt said with a shrug. "I have always loved you, and I always will."

"You'll give me a big head."

Kurt shrugged again. "I'm simply stating the truth."

"You beautiful man," Blaine said, "come up here and kiss me before I begin to cry."

Kurt rolled forward on his knees to get his feet under him, but before he could rise to standing, Blaine bent forward and grabbed him by the waist, forcibly pulling him upright and into a firm embrace.

Letting out a huff of air when he collided with Blaine's torso, Kurt couldn't help but laugh… until he saw Blaine's heated gaze, eyes black with desire.

"Mr. Anderson," he gasped. "I think you might want more from me than just a kiss."

"However did you guess?" Blaine teased, trailing his hand across the dip in Kurt's lower back before venturing lower and pulling Kurt's lower half flush with his own.

"At this rate, we'll never get this suit finished," Kurt protested, but only half-heartedly.

"I suppose that just means I'll have to visit your shop more often."

"Such rotten luck," Kurt said with a smile as he leaned in to kiss Blaine once more.

* * *

It became a pattern of sorts: Blaine would come to have his new suit fitted, and inevitably, they would end up in some state of undress, finding pleasure in each other's bodies. Not that Kurt minded. In fact, he didn't even mind the trips he made to the Fabrays for Quinn's fittings. They'd become almost friendly in the weeks he'd been working on her wedding gown. Kurt hated for it to come to an end — and not just because that meant he'd be seeing less of Blaine.

It was happening already, though. Blaine's visits had grown more infrequent leading up to the wedding. The Fabrays were keeping him on a tight leash, and yet Blaine somehow found time to visit.

For Quinn's final fitting, she had to come to Kurt's shop. The dress was so heavy, and Kurt was concerned with dragging it through the mud or getting it caught in a carriage wheel. Still Mrs. Fabray insisted on escorting her, and Blaine had also come along so Kurt could put the final touches on his suit. Or at least that's what he'd told Mrs. Fabray. It was mostly true.

Kurt had never felt so flustered in all of his life — all three of them in his tiny little shop, blocks from what could be considered the respectable part of town. He wanted to hide, but instead he cleaned up as well as he could and hung some new drapes at the windows to make the shop look less stark and had some fresh tea waiting when they arrived.

"Oh, your shop is darling," Quinn remarked, earning her a stern sideways glance from her mother.

"It's tiny and a little dark, but it's mine," Kurt said proudly.

"Well, I love it," Quinn said, holding out her hand to Kurt. When he had shook it, she added, "Mr. Hummel, you remember my mother?"

"Of course," he said, bowing to her. "Mrs. Fabray, lovely to see you again."

Mrs. Fabray smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. Kurt resolved to keep a genuine smile on his face no matter what happened, but when his eyes fell on Blaine, he did not need to force his smile at all. "Mr. Anderson," he greeted. "Your suit is almost finished."

"Spectacular," Blaine said, beaming at him and using his bright gold eyes in a way that should have been illegal. "I can't wait to see it."

"Well, you can't see my dress before the wedding," Quinn said. "It's bad luck."

"That's my cue," Blaine said, bowing in an exaggerated fashion, causing both Kurt and Quinn to giggle. "I'm to find something respectable to do until the ladies are finished here."

"Good luck with that in this part of town," Mrs. Fabray scoffed.

"Mother," Quinn chastised, looking nervously at Kurt. "He'll be fine."

Eager to diffuse the tension, Kurt took matters into his own hands. "Mrs. Fabray, why don't you help Quinn get into her dress," he said, pointing toward the changing area, "and I'll get everything set up out here. Blaine, you can come back in an hour. We should be done by then."

Quinn led Mrs. Fabray toward the back of the shop, and the two disappeared behind the thick curtain.

"You should have been a shepherd the way you corralled them so easily," Blaine muttered. He had leaned in so closely, Kurt could feel his breath tickling hotly at the back of his neck.

Kurt closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. "You should go."

A fleeting brush of Blaine's hand against his own was all that remained as Kurt heard the bell over the door ring out. His skin felt overly warm, and his breath came in short, maddening bursts. He had only just gotten himself composed when Quinn emerged from behind the curtain, resplendent in her wedding gown.

"Doesn't my Lucy look positively stunning?" Mrs. Fabray remarked as she followed her back into the shop.

"It's the dress," Quinn said, blushing.

"Nonsense," Kurt said. "The dress is lovely, but the bride… she makes the dress come alive." He turned her to face his large mirror and watched as she stepped up onto the platform and gasped at the sight of herself.

Tears in her eyes, Quinn whispered, "Kurt, I look like royalty."

"You _are_ royalty, dear," her mother said, as if it were the most obvious thing.

Kurt resisted the urge to roll his eyes and stepped closer to Quinn. "See how I took in the shoulders so the sleeves don't overwhelm you? And I switched out the lace like we discussed."

"Kurt," Quinn began, placing her hand over his where he was adjusting a sleeve. "I love it. Thank you."

He looked up at her, finding genuine affection in her green eyes. "The pleasure was all mine," he said. He was surprised to discover he actually meant it.

Working in silence as the Fabray women prattled on about flowers and buffets and guest lists, Kurt focused on making some final adjustments to the hem. Before long, he was standing up and brushing the dust from his knees.

"Voila!" he exclaimed in his best approximation of a French accent. "It is finished. You can get married tomorrow."

He stepped back to admire his work, and watched as both Quinn and her mother broke into wide smiles.

"You have a talent, Mr. Hummel. I'll give you that," Mrs. Fabray said.

"Come help me get changed, Mother. I'm sure Mr. Hummel has other clients to see."

"No hurry, ladies," Kurt said, waving her off with a dismissive hand. "It's just Blaine this afternoon."

Quinn glanced at the clock over the fireplace. "Oh, goodness, he'll be here any moment. Mother, I have to get changed. He can't see me like this."

Her mild distress was charming, and Kurt chuckled to himself. "I won't let him in until you've changed. Don't worry."

Giving him a grateful smile, Quinn disappeared behind the curtain once more. After a few moments, Mrs. Fabray reemerged, sans Quinn.

"My daughter would like to speak to you," Mrs. Fabray said, unable to conceal her sneer. "I'll wait outside in the carriage."

Kurt gave her an apologetic smile and ducked behind the curtain, hoping Quinn was decent. "Miss Fabray?" he called, using his hand to cover his eyes.

"I'm fully dressed," she laughed.

Lowering his hand, Kurt found that she was indeed clothed in the periwinkle gown she had worn when she entered the shop.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, holding back the curtain so she could step out into the shop.

"I was hoping you could give me some advice… on a gift for Blaine," she said, ducking her head in embarrassment.

Kurt's eyes widened in shock. "Are you sure you'd want me to help you pick something so… personal?"

"I feel like you know him so well, and you have such exquisite taste."

"Well, my taste was never in question," he said, lifting his nose in the air in false arrogance.

Quinn giggled. "I'm just at a loss for ideas, and I know it's not customary, but I just want to do something nice for him. He's been so thoughtful through this whole wedding nonsense."

"That sounds like Blaine," Kurt said fondly. He thought for a moment. "What about cufflinks? You could get them monogrammed."

"You don't think that's too… impersonal?" she asked.

"An umbrella would be impersonal. Cufflinks are like hatpins: they tell you something about the person."

"What does my hatpin say about me?" Quinn asked, twirling around with a giggle.

"That you're a woman who would buy her fiancé cufflinks," Kurt teased.

"You're incorrigible," she said. Rocking forward on her toes, she let out a relieved-sounding exhale. "Cufflinks it is, then." She held out a hand to Kurt. "Thanks again… for everything."

Leaning forward to take her hand, he pressed a light kiss over her gloved knuckles. "Oh, I almost forgot," he said, standing up and reaching behind the counter. "I added the orange blossoms to your headpiece, which of course, will be held in place by Mrs. Anderson's combs." He passed it over to her.

"Oh, it's lovely," Quinn said, turning the floral crown over in her hands.

As her fingers danced over the orange blossoms, Kurt thought of Blaine, and his mind wandered off into memories of time spent amid the boughs of the orange trees, the faint scent of the ocean mixing with the sweet scent of the blossoms in the crisp night air. What he wouldn't give to recapture those simple days, precious moments stolen from the cruel mistress of fate and repaid tenfold in their two months apart. He only hoped their debt had been forgiven.

And then suddenly, Blaine was there. Through the open window, he could see him standing outside, talking to Mrs. Fabray. Kurt watched him in profile, stunning and classically handsome. He would never get tired of watching him like this, when he was unaware anyone else could see him.

"I have this same book," Quinn said suddenly, holding it up and smiling before followed Kurt's gaze out the window. "Well, _had_ … I let Blaine borrow it and he—"

Kurt looked back at her when she trailed off and found Quinn staring open-mouthed at the book of poetry he'd left lying on the counter. She looked back up at him wide-eyed. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

Quinn quickly composed herself and smiled at him. "Oh, n-nothing," she said. "I was just remembering something I needed to do before the wedding tomorrow."

"A bride's work is never done," Kurt commented, reasoning that her abrupt change in demeanor must have been a sudden onset of nerves. "Nor is a tailor's, apparently. Would you send Blaine in?"

"Of course," Quinn replied, her mouth set in tight smile as she set the book on the counter.

Kurt wished he could help ease her tension, but it would be over soon enough. Once the wedding had passed, she'd be able to relax with her new husband. The thought made his heart ache anew, even as he hoped Quinn was happy.

He watched as Quinn exited the shop and greeted Blaine. Kurt set about putting away Quinn's dress and cleaning up the tea service that had gone untouched. He had just realized he'd left Quinn's headpiece on the counter when Blaine walked through the door, the shop's bell ringing out brightly behind him. Grabbing the nearest box, Kurt shoved the headpiece inside and closed the lid, hoping Blaine hadn't seen.

"Blaine!"

"Well, now that's a greeting," Blaine said, his eyes round and bright. Kurt's heart melted as he gazed into their warmth.

Clearing his throat loudly, Kurt said, "Let me go get your suit, and we can see how it fits." His words came out high-pitched and breathy; it was as businesslike as he could manage under the circumstances.

He didn't realize Blaine had followed him until he felt two arms snake around his middle and pull him close. Kurt nearly lost his footing, but Blaine caught him, nuzzling into his neck and humming contentedly.

"You smell wonderful," Blaine said. "Good enough to eat."

Kurt let himself get pulled down into the cascading tide of Blaine, almost drowning in desire and forgetting for a few precious seconds that they could be found out at any moment.

"We can't do this," Kurt panted, forcing himself to pull away from Blaine. "Quinn's dress is finished, and you're getting married tomorrow. Not to mention both your fiancée and her mother are right outside."

"No, they're not," Blaine said. "I sent them on without me. Told them I'd walk home… So you see, we're all alone." His grin was lascivious and totally intoxicating. "Let's go upstairs."

"We really need to finish your suit," Kurt said, his words muffled by a kiss.

"After," Blaine insisted, the tip of his nose still brushing Kurt's. "I really need to touch you right now."

Unable to defend himself against such words, Kurt conceded, allowing Blaine to pull him along, up the narrow staircase and into his apartment.

By the time the backs of Kurt's knees hit the bed, they were both bare from the waist up, shirts and jackets marking their trail from the front door.

"How did I ever manage more than two months without this?" Kurt said, gasping as Blaine's mouth found his neck.

"Chandler wasn't an adequate lover?"

Kurt froze at his words, shoving at Blaine's shoulders and sitting up on the bed. Blaine looked at him with wide eyes. "Did I say something wrong?"

"Chandler?!" Kurt shrieked. "You really think that he and I… were lovers?"

"Weren't you?"

"No," Kurt spat. "We weren't."

"I just thought…"

"Is that why you never responded to my letter?"

"What letter?"

"Nevermind," Kurt said, attempting to distract Blaine by pulling him down on top of him again. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Blaine's shoulder.

"Kurt, stop," Blaine said as he pulled back from Kurt and hovered over him on his hands and knees. "What letter?"

"It's nothing," Kurt insisted. "Just forget it." He ducked his head and began picking at his cuticles.

Blaine placed a finger under his chin and gently nudged it up. His eyes were wide and earnest. "I never got a letter from you, Kurt. I swear it. If I had, I would have found a way to get word to you."

Kurt's eyes were stinging; he had been carrying that small worry in the back of his mind for so long that he had begun to believe that maybe Blaine did not love him in the same way that Kurt loved him. He hadn't even realized how much he had doubted it until the insecurity was taken away.

"Don't cry," Blaine said, wiping a tear from Kurt's cheek. "I'm here now, and I love you. Please, let's just enjoy it while we can."

Nodding as he dried his eyes, Kurt smiled up at Blaine, hoping to reassure him and recapture the heated passion that had led them upstairs. "Where were we?" Kurt asked, reaching for the closure of Blaine's trousers.

"I think that's right about where we left off," Blaine replied, kissing the tip of Kurt's nose almost reverently. The sweetness of the gesture aroused Kurt in an unexpected way. He suddenly found himself practically ripping at Blaine's pants in attempt to undress him as rapidly as possible.

"Careful," Blaine admonished. "You'll tear the fabric."

Kurt chose not to heed Blaine's warning. Instead, he kissed a line across Blaine's neck, stopping just under his chin, all the while continuing to tug at his trousers. "I can fix it," Kurt insisted. "You forget that I'm not only your lover; I'm also your tailor."

"Damn the tailoring," Blaine said. "Just get undressed."

Elbows and knees knocking together uncomfortably on Kurt's narrow bed, they somehow managed to disrobe entirely. Kurt sat back against his pillows and began to laugh.

"What's so funny?" Blaine asked, looking as if he'd taken offense.

"Not two minutes ago we were arguing, and now look at us."

"We are quite the pair," Blaine admitted as he lowered himself over Kurt's body.

"I like that word," Kurt said, threading his fingers through Blaine's where his hand rested on his chest. "Pair. Like we're a matched set."

"We are."

"Until tomorrow," Kurt reasoned.

"No," Blaine said, lifting his head and shaking it so firmly that he nearly struck Kurt's chin with his forehead. "My marrying Quinn has no bearing on us."

"Maybe not for you, but to the rest of the world… Mr. and Mrs. Anderson: a matched set."

"Damn the rest of the world," Blaine said. His voice was low and rough as he held Kurt's gaze, making him forget the melancholy knot in the pit of his stomach for the moment. And a few slow, languid kisses returned the fervent heat to his body, with the need to feel and be felt coursing through him like wildfire.

The lines of Blaine's back grew taut, the muscles rippling beneath Kurt's palms as the warmth of Blaine's bare skin spurred him onward.

"Roll over onto your stomach," he commanded.

Blaine's eyes were dark, a deep pool of ink surrounded by the faintest touch of amber. "What are you going to do?" he asked, his voice a breathy tremor.

"You'll see," Kurt said, imparting a teasing quality to his tone. "Now, roll over."

Blaine turned over so quickly he nearly fell of the bed. Biting back a laugh, Kurt lowered his hands to Blaine's back, just beneath his shoulder blades and kneaded the tense muscles there. Blaine moaned softly into the pillow beneath his head.

"That feels heavenly," he muttered.

"I have hardly begun," Kurt said.

"That matters little," Blaine said. "I love the way your hands feel on me. It's like we were made to fit together like this."

Unable to respond to such words, Kurt pressed his lips to Blaine's spine. In his mind it was a promise: to support him and cherish him for as long as he could. But he could not make the words form on his tongue. Instead he found other ways to communicate that did not need words: kisses, caresses… love.

Crawling backward on his hands and knees, Kurt hovered over Blaine's legs, watching the swell of his backside rise and fall with his breath and the intermittent fits and starts when Kurt began to lave his tongue over Blaine's calves. Blaine began writhing beneath him, but allowed Kurt to continue, moaning and sighing at each new sensation. When Kurt bit down lightly on the now-damp skin, Blaine's torso lifted off the bed as he twisted to meet Kurt's eyes.

Unable to resist Blaine, with his parted lips and flushed cheeks, Kurt pushed himself up to kiss his lover, only to be summarily pulled down on top of him with a muffled "oof."

Blaine rolled them over, keeping his arms firmly about Kurt's back. "That's quite enough of that," he said, nudging Kurt's nose up so he could press their lips together.

"I thought you were enjoying it," Kurt said.

"I was… a little too much." Blaine emphasized his meaning by pressing his lower half into Kurt's, his hardened cock, digging into Kurt's hip.

"Or maybe just enough," Kurt said, thrusting his own hips forward and gasping when he made contact with Blaine.

Words ceased to exist as they moved together. Everything Kurt knew became focused on the pair of them, writhing and moaning amid his tangled sheets.

When Kurt had begun frequenting Columbia Hall, he had wondered if lying with another man would be the same as loving Blaine. He had quickly found it was altogether different, and nowhere near as satisfying. And yet he endured under the presumption that he might never have anything so precious again, and resolved to be content with what he could have.

But nothing could compare to this: falling into the depths of Blaine's amber eyes followed by whispers of _I love you_ against flushed skin, and the precious seconds before it was all over when every ounce of pleasure on earth seemed to be wrapped up in Blaine's tightly closed eyes as he spilled hotly across Kurt's chest. It sent Kurt over the edge after him, tumbling down and down until he was lying in a heap, gasping for breath.

"I really should finish your suit," Kurt said.

"At least let me catch my breath first," Blaine replied, kissing the cleft in Kurt's chin.

The weight of him felt heavy across Kurt's body, but he was grateful for the tangle of limbs and the heat of Blaine's breath grazing his chest. It kept him grounded, prevented him from flying off into the stratosphere on the wings of his own elation.

* * *

When they'd finally forced themselves back downstairs to finish the suit, and Kurt presented Blaine with his own wedding gift: a silk vest in the same fabric as Quinn's dress but with different embroidery. It looked a bit like a vest of Kurt's that Blaine had admired when they were in St. Augustine, but made of much finer fabric. Kurt felt Blaine deserved that.

"This isn't necessary," Blaine said when he opened the box. He looked at Kurt with warmth in his eyes, his voice low and intimate. "The suit is enough."

Kurt scoffed. "It's tradition, Blaine. A new silk vest for the groom."

Blaine ran his hands over the embroidery in the pale silk. "I love it," he said. "And I love you."

"Blaine," Kurt chided, swatting at Blaine's chest with his hand before growing more serious and holding Blaine's gaze. "It was the only way I could be with you on your wedding day."

"Darling, you know I'd rather be marrying you," Blaine said, reaching forward to pull Kurt into his arms.

Kurt tried to come up with something to say in response, but instead he allowed himself to settle into the solid comfort of Blaine's embrace.

"The orange blossoms… your idea?" Blaine asked, tilting Kurt's head up to meet him in a kiss.

"Yes," Kurt gasped, unsure if he was answering Blaine's question or trying to encourage his movements. Catching himself, he added, "You weren't supposed to see that."

"I won't tell if you won't."

Blaine's lips trailed down Kurt's jaw, grazing his earlobe and finding a spot on his neck that made him positively weak in the knees.

"How can you not be sated after what we just did?" Kurt asked, even as he felt himself growing aroused again.

"You make me insatiable," Blaine replied. "Let me take off this suit, and we can try to exhaust each other this time."

"I really need to finish your suit. The wedding's tomorrow."

"So you keep reminding me," Blaine huffed.

"I only speak the truth."

"Right now the only truth I know is how you feel beneath my fingertips," Blaine said, running his hands over Kurt's chest and shoulders. "And how the moonlight through your bedroom window makes your fair skin glow like a freshly shined pearl." He trailed a hand down Kurt's back as his gaze fell to Kurt's mouth. "The way your lips taste when you call out my name in ecstasy."

Kurt moaned as Blaine's lips closed over his, the soft brush of Blaine's tongue shooting arousal through him like lightning. His hands moved of their own accord, grabbing and pulling at Blaine's suit, heedless of the pins as they fell to the floor, ruining the work he had just done.

"Upstairs?" Blaine inquired, breathless in his own arousal.

Kurt nodded sharply and was opening his mouth to speak when suddenly the bell rang out in the shop. Kurt froze, and Blaine's eyes went wide with terror.

A female voice called out, "Hello? Mr. Hummel?"

"Quinn's mother," Blaine whispered, the color drained from his face.

"Just a minute," Kurt called, working quickly to adjust his trousers and straighten his tie. He only hoped his hair hadn't become too mussed. "You wait here," he hissed at Blaine, "and for God's sake, don't make a sound."

Kurt emerged from behind the curtain still running his hand through his hair. "Mrs. Fabray, did you forget something?"

"Quinn's parasol," she said, holding it up. "Found it propped against the counter. I swear that girl would forget her head if it wasn't attached. Thank goodness she becomes someone else's problem tomorrow."

"I'm sure Mr. Anderson wouldn't see it that way," Kurt said, offended on Quinn's behalf. He raised his chin and looked down his nose at her. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"That's all," Mrs. Fabray said. "Make sure the dress is delivered on time tomorrow." She turned heel and exited the shop. Kurt waited until he saw the carriage drive off to return to Blaine's side.

"My heart is positively racing," Blaine said breathlessly.

"What if she'd caught us?"

"She didn't," Blaine said simply.

"But what if she did?" Kurt insisted. "We can't risk it."

Blaine's smile fell from his face. "Please don't do this again."

"I'm not," Kurt said, cupping Blaine's jaw in his palm. "We'll talk when you get back from Europe."

"I don't want to leave you," Blaine said, leaning into Kurt's touch. "You sure you can't come with us?"

"I think your new bride might take issue with that." Kurt tried to laugh at his own joke, but the sound came out more like a choked-off sob.

"We're going to make this work," Blaine said. "We will."

Kurt nodded even though he had his doubts. He didn't want them to part on bad terms. He leaned in to kiss Blaine one last time. "I'll see you when you get back from your honeymoon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: Because Glee is coming back next week (and also because Thursdays are crazy busy for me right now), I'm going to move my posting date to the weekend. Look for Gilded Cage to update on Sundays starting next week.


	18. Chapter 18

**** July/August 1895 ****

"I now pronounce you man and wife," the minister said.

A resounding cheer came from the back of the church and Quinn smiled as Blaine leaned in to kiss her. His stomach fluttered as he caught the whiff of orange blossoms in her hair, teasing him with memory. Trying to smile back, he searched the faces of their guests for his aunt, but instead found his best man, Sam Evans, who nearly suffocated him with a fierce hug.

"Smile, Blaine," Sam muttered into his ear. "It's your wedding day."

Blaine tugged the corners of his mouth as high as they could go without making him look like he'd escaped from the sanitarium and patted his friend on the back, thankful for the reminder that he still had a role to play.

The afternoon sunlight streaming in through the stained-glass windows painted the aisle in a myriad of colors that reflected off the muted silk of Quinn's gown: a work of art that Kurt had created with his own two hands. There was no denying its beauty, the exquisite embroidery, or the tiny details that made it one-of-a-kind. Everyone had marveled at it, Blaine included, and every lady in attendance had begged Mrs. Fabray for the name of the dressmaker.

"Now, I can't give all my secrets away," she told a woman Blaine was certain had once bragged to his own mother that she had all of her clothes custom made in England.

The irony that Judith Fabray was now suddenly keen on Kurt's skill as a dressmaker did escaped neither Blaine's nor Quinn's attention.

"Look at her," Quinn whispered. "She practically spat in Kurt's face in his shop yesterday, and now she's bragging about him like he's her oldest and dearest friend."

"Well, you do look quite lovely," Blaine said honestly. "The orange blossoms were a nice touch."

"Kurt's idea," Quinn said with a bright smile. "He thought it would remind you of where we met."

Blaine smiled, but he wasn't thinking of Quinn. His mind was driven to a stronger memory, one that was imprinted on his heart and perfumed with the scent of orange blossoms in the dark. It was bright eyes the color of the sea and miles of fair skin laid out before him on a bed; it was poetry and prose, timeless and forever.

"Kurt is…" Blaine began, but once he started to speak found he could not finish the sentence. The words he wanted to say could not be uttered aloud, and anything less would be a falsehood worthy of treason against his heart.

"We should speak to my father about investing in his business," Quinn said, paying Blaine's aborted comment no mind. "I think Mr. Hummel would like to have his shop in a better part of town and a more… _reliable_ clientele."

Biting his lip, Blaine nodded his agreement rather than risking another attempt to speak. He was fearful he might blurt out his feelings for Kurt in a moment of madness. So he remained unusually quiet for the remainder of the evening, until the reception was winding down and it became time for he and Quinn to make their way to their new home.

"I think I'm supposed to carry you," Blaine said, his voice quavering as he stared up at their front door.

"I suppose it _is_ tradition," Quinn said, her voice equally as shaky.

Mindful of Quinn's dress, Blaine gently placed his left arm under one of her voluminous sleeves, the lace from her cuff tickling his neck as she looped her arm around his shoulders. Squatting carefully, he scooped her up, placing his other hand under her knees. She felt light as a feather despite the heavy silk covering her entire body, and yet the weight of his commitment settled about his shoulders as he crossed the threshold to his new life.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Anderson," he said to her, setting her on her feet again and smiling.

The house was dimly lit and quiet, the cool night air drifting in through the open windows, the sparse furnishings that Blaine had dared purchase without Quinn's approval looking ominous cast in shadow.

Her green eyes wide and disbelieving as she took in her surroundings, Quinn turned to stare almost blankly at her new husband. "It doesn't feel quite real yet," she said.

"I suppose it will take some getting used to," Blaine said. He shifted his weight back and forth, the scuff of his shoes on the rug in their entryway echoing through the empty house. "Did you want to get changed?"

Quinn looked practically horrified at the idea, and Blaine knew she probably mistook his own sudden discomfort for nerves. To the world they would look the very picture of a young couple about to consummate their marriage on their wedding night. The irony made Blaine giggle.

"What's so funny?" Quinn asked, looking scandalized.

Blaine guffawed, the whole situation seeming more and more ridiculous to him by the moment. He'd been in various states of undress and compromising position so many times that he'd lost count, and yet here he was, terrified to go to bed with his own wife.

"The look on your face," Blaine said between his now wheezing laughs.

"You're one to talk," Quinn bit back. "You're white as a sheet."

Blaine nearly doubled over with laughter. "Exactly… the pair of us," he said, his voice high-pitched and practically unintelligible. "Like a couple of scared house cats."

Quinn's scowl began to waver, her upper lip twitching slightly as she watched Blaine wipe at his watery eyes, until she was laughing almost as boisterously as he was. "We do make quite the pair," Quinn said. "Me in my silk and you in your top hat and tails, standing in our own parlor afraid to go to bed."

Still giggling, Blaine led his new bride upstairs. When they reached their shared bedroom, he ducked down into her eye line. "If you like, we'll hire you a lady's maid, but I'm afraid tonight, you'll have to make do with me."

"Are you sure you're capable?" Quinn said. There was a teasing quality to her voice as she blinked up at him.

"I'm sure I can manage."

She raised her eyebrows at him.

"I asked Kurt to show me how to lace a corset… and various other tasks," he stammered.

Quinn's skin flushed pink at the implication.

Sensing her discomfort, Blaine placed a reassuring hand on her arm. "I can loosen the stays and give you some privacy," he said.

She nodded silently and turned her back to him, allowing him to unbutton the back of her dress and untie the laces on her corset.

"I'll be right outside," he said and closed the door behind him.

He stood in the hallway breathing deeply, wondering what Kurt was doing. Swallowing heavily, he tried not to think about what he was going to need to do once Quinn was undressed.

Blaine's palms began to sweat as he listened to the muffled sounds coming through the door. It sounded like Quinn opened and closed every one of the trunks her parents had delivered that morning. He stood there so long, leaning up against the stenciled wallpaper and wondering how he would ever be able to consummate his marriage, that he began to grow restless. Taking out a cigarette and lighting it, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the bitter flavor of the tobacco dull his senses. The blood rushing through his ears sounded like a roaring fire, and he barely heard Quinn call out, "You can come in."

Quinn had taken her blonde hair out of its high, loose chignon and was reclining on the bed, the sheets clutched tightly to her neck. Trying his best to remain confident, Blaine stubbed out his cigarette and set about undressing. When he had climbed under the sheet next to Quinn, he turned toward her with a hesitant smile. When he leaned forward to kiss her, she recoiled.

"I'm sorry… I can't," Quinn said, pulling the sheet even more tightly to her chest. She would not look at Blaine, instead focusing on the edge of the bed.

Blaine furrowed his brow in concern. "Darling, what's wrong?" he asked, backing away from her, and sitting up. He watched her intently for a moment, wondering what it must be like for a young woman on her wedding night. "You know I won't force you."

"I know," Quinn said. "It's not that."

"Then what?"

"I thought I could, but I can't."

Blaine studied her face for a moment and noticed for the first time the tight set of her jaw, her lips pursed into a tight line. It had been there all day, but he had been so distracted by his own melancholy, he'd only just noticed it.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice a tentative whisper much like the quiet rustle of the bed sheet as he turned to face Quinn.

"It's all a lie," she said, a single tear spilling from her eye and rolling down her pink cheek.

Blaine's blood ran cold, his stomach tumbling in freefall. "W-what do you mean, darling?" He reached out a hand to try to comfort her, even as his own body rebelled.

"Don't call me that," she spat, pulling her arm away from his grasp.

Staring down at his hand where it lay in his own lap, Blaine tried to make his mouth form words, but it was as if he were suddenly mute. They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, the loud echo of the hall clock inside Blaine's head mocking him as it marked the seconds of his life slipping away and falling from his grasp like sand through a sieve.

When Quinn finally spoke, her voice was raspy but unwavering. "He has my book," she said. "The Emily Dickinson poems. You took it that day we picnicked before you left for Atlanta, remember?"

Blaine felt sick. A cold sweat broke out on his brow. Swallowing hard, it was all he could do to keep from releasing the contents of his stomach. He licked his lips. "Lots of people have books of poetry," he insisted, forcing a weak smile.

"You know, I thought you kept it because it reminded you of me," she said with a laugh. "God, what a fool I was."

"You're not a fool."

"And you went to Atlanta _with_ him. He picked out my ring!" Her face grew more disgusted with every word. "He made my dress!"

"Quinn, you don't understand," Blaine said. His tongue felt two sizes too big for his mouth, his feet numb and cold even though the room was perfectly warm.

She continued on as if she hadn't even heard him. "He wrote you a love letter, and I was stupid enough to defend you to my father. What a cotton-headed fool I was, thinking it was some _woman_ who had been taken in by your charms."

"Quinn, please, I– Wait, how did your father get my letter?"

"And all this time," she barreled on, "all this _time_ … God, you must have both thought I was the silliest little thing you'd ever seen. I hope I amused you!"

Blaine was so disgusted with himself, he didn't even try to defend it. He knew Quinn had every right to be angry with him, to hate him to the ends of the earth and back if she chose, but he had to know: "Where is the letter?"

Quinn looked at him with such disgust, Blaine thought he might be sick right then and there.

"Please," he begged. "I need to know."

She sniffed, holding her head high. "Why does it matter?"

Resolving to tell her the truth, Blaine let out a ragged breath and said, "If it gets back to my grandfather that I've been in contact with Kurt, he'll disinherit me…. Us."

That caught Quinn's attention.

"Your mother burned it," she said flatly. "But not before I overheard her telling your father what she had found. Of course, I thought K was a woman, which Mother did nothing to refute. No, she reassured me it was perfectly normal for a man to seek a _companion_ to teach him things before becoming married."

Blaine's breath left him in a rush, a small measure of relief washing over him as he tried to come up with something to say that could somehow fix things. Before he could speak, Quinn turned to face him, her sadness replaced by a steely, cold gaze Blaine had never before seen on her pretty face.

"I won't tell anyone. Nothing has to change," she said, pausing to breathe deeply. "But when we return from our honeymoon, we will have separate bedrooms."

"I should sleep downstairs," Blaine said, feeling sheepish as he began to pull back the sheet.

Quinn looked thoughtful for a moment. "No," she said firmly. "I won't give anyone reason to talk, not even our servants. We sleep here tonight."

Her tone discouraged any further discussion, so Blaine simply nodded as he watched her turn out the gas lamp beside the bed and curl away from him. He sat in stunned silence for a few moments before lowering himself onto the mattress and allowing himself a deep breath.

When Quinn's breathing had evened out and Blaine was certain she was asleep, he finally closed his eyes.

"I'll make it right," he whispered into the darkness, unsure to whom he was speaking.

* * *

At first being alone with Quinn was peculiar, and then it became overwhelmingly uncomfortable. In the week that it took them to cross the Atlantic, it became simply unsettling. To the outside world, the Andersons were the perfect young couple, everyone they encountered gushing over them as if they were a newborn baby. Blaine felt utterly on display, but Quinn seemed to take it all in stride. He admired her, really. Watching her play the role of the loving wife, completely enamored of her husband, he couldn't help but appreciate her restraint and her dedication to the charade.

But when they retired to their rooms for the evening, the silence consumed him. Quinn refused to speak unless spoken to, and Blaine couldn't figure out what to say that might begin to rebuild their friendship.

"The duck at dinner was a little too fatty, didn't you think?" he asked one night, hoping to ease them into a conversation.

"I quite enjoyed it," Quinn replied, the look on her face indicating she was disagreeing simply to be contrary.

"Quinn, please… can we talk?"

"Of course, dear," she replied, a false smile mocking Blaine as she took her hair down and began brushing it. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Anything," Blaine replied, suddenly realizing he didn't have a plan. "I just want us to… be friends again."

Quinn's eyes narrowed, her lips forming a tight, impenetrable line. "Friends?" she spat. "I'm your wife!"

Blaine swallowed tensely, unsure of what to say and unable to counter Quinn's claim. He sagged against the mantle, the fireplace beneath it a black abyss of nothingness in the absence of a fire's warmth. He wished he had the crackle of the flames to drown out his own thoughts. "You have every right to be angry," he said softly. "I'm not denying you that." He paused, choosing his words as carefully as he could. "But we're going to be married for a long while, and I'd hate for you to be miserable simply because I was a heartless wretch of a man."

Glancing up at Quinn, he could feel the dull burn of contrite tears begin to sting his eyes.

"I'm not sure I can forgive you," she said.

"I'm not asking you to," Blaine replied. "Only that you'll try to be happy."

Quinn looked thoughtful, and for a moment Blaine thought she might tell him to sleep outside that night, and for the duration of their lives.

"Fine," she said finally. "But I have some expectations of you… as a proper husband and gentleman."

"I'll be the picture of decorum," Blaine reassured her.

"Yes, you will," Quinn stated with a curt nod.

Blaine reached out to take her tiny, delicate hand in his own. "You must believe me, Quinn; I'd never do anything to harm your reputation."

"I believe you," Quinn. said softly. Her eyes fell to their joined hands, and Blaine felt the gentlest squeeze from her fingertips before she released his grip. Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath before she continued. "You've been quite the actor up until this point, and I expect you to continue the ruse in the role of my husband. No one must ever know that we're not madly in love."

Blaine felt a spark of hope blink brightly in his mind. "I think I can oblige."

"We'll see," Quinn said, looking skeptical that Blaine would agree to any stipulations she might set forth. "In exchange, we shall both be allowed to do as we wish so long as it doesn't affect our standing in society."

"What about…?" Blaine trailed off, unable to say the words for fear that Quinn might change her mind.

"Kurt," she stated plainly. "As I said, we are both free to conduct our affairs as we see fit. I won't question the company you keep, and you shan't question mine."

"As long as we're discreet," Blaine added, finally able to see her point of view. She just wanted a life where she would be free to make her own choices. He could give her that. "And children?"

"Perhaps one day," she said. "But for now… we sleep in separate beds."

"On one condition," Blaine said.

Quinn's eyes darted up to meet his, a question looming large on her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but Blaine held up a finger to silence her, a gentle smile on his face.

"Can we be friends again? I was so enjoying your company before we quarreled."

A smile dared to emerge from Quinn's scowl as her eyes softened; she bit her lower lip trying to stifle her laughter. Giddy with delight at being able to reconcile, Blaine wrapped his arms around her in a firm hug, lifting her from the ground and twirling them both on the spot.

"Put me down," she protested. "I haven't said yes yet." Her words came out staccato and breathy through her laughter.

Blaine set her on her own feet again and took her hands in his. "Quinn, I truly am sorry I wasn't forthcoming with you about Kurt. If I could go back and change it all, I would. I never meant to hurt you."

"I know," she said. "We can't choose who we love."

Something in her melancholy expression told him there was something more behind her words, but a sudden knock at the door prevented him from inquiring further.

"Come in," Blaine called, allowing the maid entrance to turn down the bed and draw their curtains.

When the maid left, Blaine busied himself with the evening paper while Quinn retreated to their en-suite bathroom to soak in the tub. Blaine must have dozed off because when she reemerged, he caught the scent of orange blossom and awoke expecting to find Kurt instead of Quinn. His resulting disappointment forced all other thoughts from his mind.

That night he found himself unable to sleep without dreaming of pale skin, moonlit and luminous beneath him, he awoke after only an hour, aroused and sweaty. Thankful Quinn was sound asleep, he dressed quietly and made his way downstairs for a drink.

It was late, but there were still a few people lingering in the American Bar, a place named because it served what it called American-style cocktails. Not that it mattered to Blaine, who drank his whiskey straight, but he appreciated the small reminder of home nonetheless.

The head barman, Frank Wells, greeted Blaine with a warm smile and a double shot of Scotch before he even sat down at the bar.

"Good evening, Mr. Anderson," he said. "Trouble with the missus already?"

His tone was light and his laugh jovial, but the words hit a little too close to home for Blaine's liking. He downed the Scotch in one gulp and slammed the glass on the bar with a dull thud. "Another Scotch, please, Mr. Wells."

"Whatever you say, sir," the barman replied, pouring him another double. "And, if you don't mind my saying so, it will all work itself out. You'll see."

"Mr. Wells, you have no idea, but thank you just the same." Blaine downed his second drink, and gestured for more.

As he poured, Frank said, "Perhaps you should sip this one."

Blaine nodded and folded his arms across the edge of the bar, leaning forward until he was at eye level with his drink. "I promise I'll take my time with it," he said, watching the dull glow of the electric lights dance across the rusty amber of the liquor. His reflection was distorted in the curve of the glassware, giving him a deformed, wicked look. He didn't mind so much, deciding it better reflected how he felt on the inside than what he projected to the outside world.

Outwardly, he was the perfect gentleman with a young and beautiful wife, at the precipice of a great life. Inwardly, his own self-loathing made him feel like a fraud and the worst kind of imposter, set to throw it all away for a love that would never be accepted.

Kurt would laugh at him for wallowing so, but he couldn't stop himself for indulging in it all the same.

He sat up straighter, and reached for his glass, sipping as he had promised the barman, when a pair of drably dressed men sat down a few stools away. The first, a tall gangly thing with greasy brown hair and a well-lived-in checked suit, had a voice that carried. Blaine couldn't help but eavesdrop on his conversation with a red-haired companion, whose raspy voice was harder to make out but still audible.

"It happened right here," greasy hair said. "They had lunch with rent boys in broad daylight and spent their nights in adjoining rooms doing God knows what."

"Do you really think Lord Douglas was involved?" raspy voice asked.

"I have it on good authority that he was," replied greasy hair. "A friend of mine knew Mr. Wilde personally."

Blaine felt solid as a statue for a few moments, unable to breathe. His heart pounded heavily in his chest as he waited for their conversation to continue, but the men were ordering their drinks. When Mr. Wells left them alone again, they changed topics altogether, leaving Blaine a sweating ball of tightly wound nerves.

He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling slowly as he felt the soothing effects of the tobacco wash over him. Downing the last of his Scotch, he pulled out a few coins and left them on the bar, pinching his cigarette between his teeth as he headed for the lobby.

The night clerk behind the desk looked half asleep and all of 16 years old, leaning on the desk and propping his head up with his fist as he twirled a key between his fingers. When the clerk saw Blaine approach, he jumped to his feet and righted his posture, looking about him in a panic.

"I don't think anyone saw you," Blaine whispered conspiratorially.

The young man laughed nervously. "May I help you, sir?"

"I was simply looking for some paper to write a letter, and perhaps a pen or pencil."

"Of course," the clerk replied, reaching beneath the desk and pulling out a few sheets of paper and an envelope and handing them to Blaine. "There should be a pen and some ink at the table over there." He pointed across the room to an area near the fireplace, where an inkwell and two pens were visible on the small table between two oversized stuffed chairs.

"Thank you," Blaine said, slipping the young man a shilling.

He crossed to the fireplace, and put his cigarette out in a brass ashtray before taking a seat. Bending over the table, he picked up a pen and began to scratch out a hasty note to Kurt.

_My dear K,_

_London is just as you would imagine, but dreadfully hot. We are staying at the Savoy, which is just as lavish as the Ponce, but all the more mysterious for the goings on. Upon hearing this was the very site of much of Mr. Wilde's scandalous behavior, I am struck with the need to see you, owing in part to my quarrel with Quinn — I will explain upon my return. But mostly because I realize that nothing in my life has meaning without you in it._

_I know we must be more careful, but we must also endure. Of that I am certain._

_My love, I think of you every moment I am awake, and dream of you when I sleep. Would that I could, I would whisk you away to some dark continent where no one could find us, and we would live out our days as penniless Bohemian artists._

_But we must live our lives both in sun and in shadow, as players in a drama who must never reveal their true identities. Woe, the burden we must carry — but for you I shall carry it to hell and back._

_My love and undying devotion,  
B_

Releasing his death grip on the pen, Blaine stretched his aching fingers. He hadn't realized how quickly he had written, nor how fast the words had come. Looking down at the page, his words looked ragged and almost frantic, the work of a madman. Perhaps they were.

Folding the letter carefully, he placed it in the envelope and addressed it to Kurt, discreetly pressing a kiss to the seal before leaving it with the night clerk to go in the morning post.

Suddenly exhausted, and a little tipsy, he took the lift up to their suite and collapsed on the bed still fully dressed.

* * *

By the time they got to Paris two weeks later, Blaine and Quinn had formed a bond of sorts that transcended their fledgling marriage. They would never have the kind of romantic love poets wrote sonnets about, but they could enjoy a certain level of companionship.

Quinn was enthralled by the Eiffel Tower, constructed for the 1889 World's Fair, and left to stand watch over the city as long as it dared.

"It's such a wonder of the modern world," she said, craning her neck to see as much of the structure as she could.

"Would you like to go up?" Blaine asked, basking in the delighted smile he received from his young bride.

"Oh, yes, please," she said, gripping his arm tightly and bouncing on her toes.

Blaine liked her like this, all wide-eyed delight and childlike wonder. It made the long weeks away from Kurt enjoyable in a way he thought was impossible.

So they spent their days sightseeing and shopping and their nights indulging in French theatre and music, entranced by the Bohemian lifestyle that was so prevalent there.

What was more, the fairies and Greek lovers seemed to be everywhere, causing an ache in Blaine's chest that would not subside. He wrote to Kurt several times, but none of it helped. He knew the cure, and it was several thousand miles away back in New York. He would have to make do.

Every afternoon, he and Quinn took a long walk, simply to soak up all the Parisian atmosphere they could in the short weeks they were in the city. At first Blaine was taken by the centuries-old buildings and the rapid lilt of French as it sang past his ears. But then he saw him: a long-limbed young man, who wore his hair like Kurt's and smiled at Blaine with a flirtatious gleam in his eyes whenever Blaine, with Quinn on his arm, would pass by the café where he worked.

At first Blaine thought perhaps he was imagining the knowing glances and the sly winks, attributing it to an overactive imagination and his desire to see Kurt. But one afternoon when Quinn had stayed back at the hotel thanks to an unfortunate bout of nausea, the young man called out to him in English, not even a trace of the thick French accent present in his voice.

"Monsieur, how is it you walk by here every afternoon and never stop by my café? Does the prospect of French pastry and good wine not intrigue you, sir?"

Laughing nervously, Blaine stepped closer to the man so they weren't shouting at each other. "I'm always intrigued by the prospect of good wine," he replied.

"And good company?" the man asked with a wink.

Blaine felt his breath catch in his throat. There was no mistaking it this time; he was definitely flirting. "I… well, yes… that is, I–"

"Relax," the man said, saving Blaine from his stammering. "I was only hoping you'd help me pass the time until the café closes. My French is good, but it's always nice to speak English. Reminds me of home."

He held out a chair for Blaine at an empty table.

"And where is home?" Blaine asked as he took the offered seat.

"Ohio," the man replied. "And you?"

"New York."

"I thought so. You looked like the society type." He held out a hand for Blaine to shake. "Sebastian Smythe. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Blaine Anderson," he replied, taking Sebastian's hand. "So, what's good here?"

Sebastian leaned, letting his hand linger over Blaine's longer than was completely respectable. "Me," he said.

Yanking his hand away, Blaine tried to cover his shock with laughter. "Does that go well with red wine?"

"If you want it to, yes."

"Mr. Smythe, I'm a married man."

"Oh, I'm keenly aware of your situation, Blaine. I saw you with the little missus." He leaned in and whispered, "I'd wager there was some nonsensical clause in your trust that wouldn't allow you to inherit unless you took a wife?"

Blaine's mouth fell open in disbelief. "How…?"

Sebastian shrugged. "Lucky guess."

"I'm not really looking for anything else," Blaine said.

"No one ever is," Sebastian said. "How about I get you that red wine, and we just see what happens?"

"Nothing is going to happen," Blaine affirmed.

"We'll see," Sebastian called over his shoulder as he set off to retrieve Blaine's wine.

It wasn't until Sebastian walked away that Blaine realized his heart was racing in a way that he'd not expected. In spite of himself, Blaine was intrigued by Sebastian's crass and forward behavior. What on earth would possess a man to be so completely carefree with his predilections that he would risk propositioning a man who might turn him over to the authorities? But then again, Sebastian had guessed correctly with Blaine; he was of the same sort. He couldn't help but be relieved to find someone with whom he could talk about his current predicament.

When Sebastian returned with the wine, he was much more reserved than he had been initially. Perhaps Blaine had misjudged his intentions.

Blaine sat in subdued silence and drank his wine, the full-bodied flavor practically dancing on his tongue. After only two glasses, he felt light-headed and relaxed, as if he were floating and weighted all at once. He watched as Sebastian waited on other tables, always with a smile for Blaine, his long legs taking him effortlessly from the kitchen to the interior of the café and the outdoor tables where Blaine sat.

By the time his wine had run dry, the sun was sitting low behind the stone facades of the surrounding buildings, and the shadows had begun to overtake the light. Realizing he should probably head back to check on Quinn, Blaine craned his neck to find Sebastian. Quinn had been prone to nausea since they left London, and it was becoming more frequent. Blaine urged her to see a doctor, but she wanted to wait until they were back in New York and could see her personal physician.

When he spotted the waiter lingering in the doorway to the café, Blaine was met with a bright smile and hazel eyes that glimmered in the haze of twilight.

Without saying a word, Sebastian leaned down and pressed a small piece of paper into Blaine's hand. As he reached into his pocket to pay, Sebastian whispered, "It's on me," and walked away.

Blaine gaped after him for a moment until he remembered the paper in his hand. He looked down at it, and could make out a few hastily scribbled words.

_Tomorrow is my day off. Meet me._

Below that was an address in a part of Paris Blaine had not yet been. Glancing around as if he'd been caught at something, Blaine shoved the note into his pocket and rose from his table so quickly, he nearly knocked over his chair. He practically ran back to the hotel.

Quinn was asleep when he got there, so he took out the paper and read it again. The words had not changed, nor had their meaning been obscured. This man — Sebastian; even his name was overstated — wanted Blaine to meet him, and he was most definitely interested in more than just wine and conversation.

Giving the note one last glance, he crumpled it up and threw it in the fireplace, where it hit the grate and rolled into the ash of a long since extinguished fire. He knew any companionship he might find with Sebastian would only be obscured by the love he felt for Kurt. No matter how lonely he'd gotten on his honeymoon, anything but his true love would pale in comparison. He went to sleep that night with a weight on his heart, and a seed of doubt in his mind, but he slept soundly and awoke reassured that he had made the right decision.

He dressed and shaved, whistling a tune that made him smile at his reflection. In a little over a week, they'd be returning home, and he could see Kurt.

When he came out of the bathroom, the curtains were still drawn and Quinn was lying on her side, clutching her stomach. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, but Blaine could tell she was no longer sleeping.

"Darling, are you alright?" he asked, laying a hand across her wan cheek. She didn't feel feverish, but with her color so drained, she looked positively sickly.

"Just another upset stomach," she replied, her eyes fluttering open to meet Blaine's. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Can I get you anything? Have some tea sent up?"

"Tea would be lovely," Quinn said, attempting a smile that more closely resembled a grimace. "And perhaps some dry toast?"

"Whatever you would like," Blaine said, petting her loose blonde curls and kissing her forehead. "I think I may go for a walk."

"That sounds lovely," Quinn said. "I wish I could join you."

"When you feel better," he said. "We'll stroll all throughout Paris arm in arm."

She attempted another small smile and curled even more tightly into the sheets, leaving Blaine to stand watch over her as she closed her eyes once more.

He grabbed his hat and made his way down to the lobby, stopping to ask that his wife be brought some tea before he set off for a morning stroll.

Something about the atmosphere in Paris made Blaine feel welcomed, and even before meeting Sebastian, he had noticed the prevalence of his sort. It seemed nearly utopian to him, a lifestyle to which he could only aspire now that he was married and saddled with the obligation of starting a family.

He wandered for what felt like hours, alone with his thoughts and the warm morning sunshine; he didn't even think of returning to the hotel until his stomach began to protest the idea of passing over lunch so soon after ignoring breakfast.

"Quinn," he called out into the overly warm room as he entered. "Are you well enough for lunch?"

As he walked around the bed, he could see the red hot embers of a recently lit fire, which explained the sweltering temperature in the room. Quinn was seated at the desk, her back to Blaine as the repetitive scratch of a pen broke the brief silence.

"Oh, you're up," Blaine said, approaching her and laying his hand gently on her shoulder.

"Mmhmm," Quinn said, not glancing up from whatever she was writing, but he could see two envelopes on the desk as she moved her arm to cover them. "I just wanted to write a quick letter to Mother. I won't be long."

"It's so hot in here," Blaine said.

Quinn shrugged but didn't look up. "I was cold."

Even though she couldn't see him, Blaine nodded. He sensed there was something else Quinn wasn't telling him, but he didn't want to cause an argument. "I'll meet you downstairs?" he hedged.

"Ten minutes," she replied without looking up.

* * *

In the two months they were gone, it seemed nothing about New York had changed, and yet somehow everything had. The air seemed heavier, the streets dirtier, the weight of obligation suffocating.

Not to mention, Quinn had been sick for the entire week they'd spent crossing the Atlantic, and Blaine was beginning to worry even more about her health. He couldn't understand why she couldn't shake the illness that had overtaken her, and she had begun to look more tired with each passing day. She complained of her corsets being too tight and her shoes too small. He wondered if the rich food they had eaten in Paris had been too much for her or if she had perhaps caught some sort of sickness.

He had been too worried to leave her side, not even to see Kurt, and when she still wasn't feeling better nearly a week after they returned, he decided he needed to intervene for her own good.

"That's it," he said, throwing down his newspaper when he saw her return from the bathroom after another bout of sickness. "You need to see a doctor."

Quinn's eyes flashed angrily, the green even more striking against the pale complexion that accompanied her illness. "I told you I'm fine."

"You're not fine, Quinn," Blaine insisted. "You're vomiting every day, and it's not getting better." He grabbed his hat from the hall table. "I'm going to go and fetch my father, and that's final."

For a moment, Quinn looked like she was about to protest, but then she clasped her hand over her mouth and ran out of the room. Blaine didn't waste another moment, racing out the door and heading in the direction of his father's office.

He was so focused on reaching his destination, that he barely noticed the gentleman he nearly knocked into the street.

As he was helping to right them both, he realized he recognized the man. "Oh my stars, Burt Hummel!" Blaine said. Even in a panic, he was delighted to see Kurt's father.

"Blaine!" he exclaimed, dusting off his trousers. "Good to see you again. Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

Before he could answer, a tiny brunette came rushing up, her face painted with concern. "Mr. Hummel, are you alright?" she said in a bright voice that was infused with a dramatic flair. Mrs. Hummel was at her side, along with the tallest man Blaine had ever seen.

"Yes, Rachel, I'm quite alright," Burt replied. "But thank you for your concern."

"Rachel?" Blaine asked. "Kurt's Rachel? You're even prettier in person."

Rachel's brown eyes went wide at the compliment. "Yes, well… I…" she stammered as her gaze fluttered toward the ground.

Burt interrupted, "Kurt and Rachel are no longer betrothed. We're actually on our way to celebrate her engagement to Mr. Hudson." He gestured to the tall man standing nearby who looked dumbfounded by the whole thing. "Blaine Anderson, this is Carole's son, Finn."

"Oh!" Blaine exclaimed. "Pleased to meet you!" He shook Finn's hand enthusiastically until it all sunk in. "Wait, so you… Kurt… they aren't…?"

"We're all quite happy about it, I assure you," Rachel challenged. "Kurt was the one to break it off. He said he didn't want to get married, and Mr. Hudson was there for me when I was in the depths of despair."

Blaine bit his lip, weighing what he wanted to say. Why hadn't Kurt told him about this? Did Rachel know about him? He glanced at Rachel; she was looking up at Finn adoringly. She didn't seem the least bit concerned with Blaine's presence, or anything apart from Finn, who was gazing down at her with the same adoration, combined with a charmingly crooked smile. They looked happy.

"Kurt just never mentioned it," Blaine said.

Burt's eyebrows shot up in a very Kurt-like expression. "I wasn't aware you and he had stayed in contact," he said.

"He made my wife's wedding dress," Blaine said.

"I'm sure Miss Fabray made a lovely bride," Mrs. Hummel said with a smile. And then suddenly her hand flew up to cover her mouth. "Pardon me. I suppose she's Mrs. Anderson now."

"It's quite alright," Blaine said. "She _was_ beautiful. As was Kurt's dress. I've actually engaged him as my personal tailor, and he's going to continue working on gowns for Quinn."

"Oh, how thoughtful of you to help him start his business," Rachel said. "I hope you're paying him enough to get him out of that dreadful shop. I warned him about that part of town; the worst sort of people frequent that area, and–"

"Darling, I'm sure Kurt's business matters are none of Mr. Anderson's affair," Finn said, putting a halt to her ramblings.

"Yes, of course," Rachel replied, beaming at him. "I do tend to get carried away."

Burt smirked as Carole looped her arm through his. "We really should be going," he said.

"As should I," Blaine said, shaking Burt's hand. Turning to Carole, he bowed. "Mrs. Hummel, good to see you again."

"Give my regards to Mrs. Anderson," she said.

"I shall," he said.

"It was lovely to meet you," Rachel said as Blaine and Finn shook hands.

"Best wishes to you both," Blaine said, tipping his hat.

He watched them walk down the street, Finn obviously slowing his stride to allow Rachel to keep up, and he wondered what Quinn's life might have been like if she'd been allowed to marry someone she loved as much as Rachel obviously loved Finn.


	19. Chapter 19

After the wedding, Kurt lost himself in his work. Or maybe he just felt lost; the difference hardly mattered because Blaine would return soon enough. His work kept him busy night and noon and left him with a feeling that he was no longer marking time. He was his own man, and had found his place in the world.

Just before Blaine was set to return, Kurt unexpectedly received a letter from Quinn. It was perfunctory; barely a letter at all, containing just one sentence, followed by the letter Q: _I must see you as soon as I am back in New York._

Baffled by the cryptic message, Kurt set it aside and practically forgot about it until he received word from Blaine that he was back in the city. His note said that Quinn was ill and he'd stop by as soon as he was able, but Kurt didn't see him for another two weeks. Quinn, however, came by unexpectedly one afternoon looking distressed and pale but perfectly stylish in a dress that looked nothing like what he had been seeing in New York.

Turned sideways, the ample bustle made her waist seem cinched in even tighter, or perhaps it was her stays making it look like she had been painted into her dress. The boning in the bodice must have been new, forcing her to stand straight as a pin as she stood in the doorway to his small apartment, smiling at him as if she had a secret she was dying to tell.

"Quinn, what a lovely surprise," Kurt said, hoping his greeting wasn't too presumptuous. He couldn't bear the thought of calling her Mrs. Anderson.

"This isn't a social call," Quinn stated, walking past him and into his apartment. "I'm here about your relationship with my husband."

Her words ricocheted through Kurt's chest like a bullet through his heart, the ice in her voice shattering against his ribs as he gasped for air. "W-what?"

"Don't play coy," she said, taking a seat in the chair Kurt usually reserved for Blaine. She looked so much smaller sitting down, but her eyes were piercing, holding Kurt captive with their fire. "I know all about you and Blaine."

"Quinn, I can explain."

She held up a hand, silencing him. Kurt took the seat opposite her, perching on the edge like an animal about to flee, his heart thumping mercilessly in his chest.

"What you and my husband do in private is your business," she said. Kurt felt his legs begin to shake, the tremors making his muscles feel like putty. He dabbed at the sweat beading up on his forehead as Quinn continued, "However, I thought you would like to know that you're not the only man with whom he's been… intimate."

Kurt exhaled slowly. "I'm aware of his former lifestyle, yes."

Quinn's back stiffened. Perhaps she was not aware of Blaine's previous habits, or maybe she simply did not want to be reminded of it.

"Actually," she said. "I was referring to an incident in Paris." She reached into her tiny beaded bag, and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Passing it to Kurt, she waited for him to read it. When he looked up at her after reading the brief sentences and the unfamiliar address, he found a smug smile that only added to his confusion.

"I don't understand," he said.

"I found that in our hotel room one afternoon. It seems he was out philandering about Paris behind both our backs."

"Blaine would never–"

"That's what I thought once too," Quinn reasoned, "and then I found out about you."

Kurt's mouth fell open. He sat in stunned silence for a moment and as her words wormed their way into his mind, he shook his head to clear it of his traitorous thoughts. "I refuse to believe it," he said. "He loves me, and he wouldn't do that… to either of us."

"Yes, he loves you… and yet he rushes to the arms of another man the moment you are too far away to pleasure him. What does that say about _love_?"

"That love isn't perfect," Kurt said. "But I trust Blaine."

"And that shall be your downfall, Mr. Hummel." Quinn rose to standing, Kurt stumbling to follow. "Why does no one keep their promises?!" she shouted. "No one… not one person can just do what is expected of them and shut their stupid mouths!" She curled in on herself, clutching her middle with one hand and covering her face with the other. Her body began to shake with loud, throaty sobs. "Everything is a mess, and I'm in love with a man who…" She choked off her words with a sob.

Kurt reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and stepped closer to her, laying his hand on her shoulder as he offered her the cloth. "I know you love him," Kurt said, assuming her tears were the result of the heartbreak he had caused. "And I'm sorry."

She jerked her head up, watery green eyes meeting Kurt's gaze. "I barely know him," she spat. "I am fond of him, but I do not love him."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Kurt said. "You just said–"

" _Nevermind_ what I said," Quinn interrupted, drying her eyes hastily with Kurt's handkerchief. "I obviously let my emotions get the better of me. Forgive my lack of decorum."

She handed the handkerchief back to Kurt and smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. "The other reason I am here," she said, "is I'd like you to fit me for a new dress. It seems the French food was too much for me, and I've grown thicker around the middle. You'll have to take new measurements."

Still baffled by her outburst, Kurt could do nothing but nod and follow her down into his shop. By the time she left an hour later, his body felt numb, and his heart was aching.

* * *

As Blaine's father had predicted, Quinn started feeling better after a couple of weeks. Her color gradually returned, and she no longer complained of nausea. Mr. Fabray had kept Blaine quite busy showing him the ropes of the family's textiles business, so on his first free day, he could think of nothing but seeing Kurt.

The bell on Kurt's door jangled loudly as Blaine bounded through the door. He could hardly contain the smile on his face as his eyes searched the tiny shop for Kurt's handsome face. "Kurt!" he called, finding no patrons inside.

It was quiet for a terrifying moment, and then Kurt stepped out from the back room, looking broader and taller than when Blaine had left, his chestnut hair begging for Blaine's fingers to explore it, his lips daring to be kissed. Blaine tried to take in all of him at once, but could only trail his eyes up and down his lover's body.

"My _God_ , I've missed you," he said, striding confidently toward Kurt. He reached out for him, expecting Kurt to fall immediately into his arms.

Instead, Kurt stepped back.

"Quinn came by yesterday," he said, looking subdued and distant. "She wanted to talk about the two of us."

Relief washed over him. "I know," Blaine said, smiling. "I couldn't risk telling you in a letter in case it got intercepted, but she found out about us right before the wedding, and we worked it all out on our honeymoon. She's going to let us be. I have so much to tell you!"

"Who's Sebastian?" Kurt asked, his voice low and cautious.

Blaine froze. "How do you know about that?"

"Quinn found this," Kurt said, shoving the crumpled note at him.

Blaine's eyes darted across the page, widening as he read the words. "Kurt, I never met him. You have to believe me."

For an agonizing moment, Blaine was certain everything was falling apart. He watched emotions flit across Kurt's features as if his heart were at war with his mind. The note in Blaine's hand felt like a hot ember against his palm, and he released it, letting it fall to the floor. He clenched his fist to keep from reaching out and held his breath.

Kurt slumped against the counter, as if he'd been keeping it all together but had just decided to let go of his façade. "I didn't want it to be true, but Quinn was so sure." His eyes were watery and growing red around the edges. It looked as if he'd already been crying that morning.

Blaine exhaled, hoping he was reading Kurt's expression correctly. "Darling, please," he begged, holding out his arms.

Kurt surged forward, sagging into Blaine's embrace. "Tell me you love me," he said. "I need to hear it."

"I love you, Kurt," Blaine said, tilting Kurt's face toward his with a finger under his chin. "And only you." He leaned forward and kissed Kurt softly, making a vow with his lips that words could not convey. "Sebastian was simply a temptation; one that I faced and conquered. Pleasures of the flesh hold no meaning without you."

Leaning his forehead on Blaine's, Kurt whispered, "I was so lonely here without you. I must have read your letters a dozen times each." He pulled back, a high flush on his cheeks. "Especially the first one."

Blaine chuckled. "I was in a right state when I wrote that," he said. "Drunk on Scotch and half aroused and so, so very lonely without you, my love."

Kurt's smile could have rivaled the sun with its brightness, and it warmed Blaine's heart just as much. He wanted to spend the rest of his life memorizing every line around Kurt's eyes when he smiled like that; the dimples on his cheeks, the thin line of his lips as he tried to fight his joy — all of it held Blaine under Kurt's spell.

"I'll never doubt you again," Kurt said.

"Oh, I'm sure you will," Blaine said, "but as long as you always give me a chance to explain."

"If you promise to stop being so damned charming that men practically throw themselves at you, I'll sign an oath in blood."

"I'm afraid being charming is just part of the package," Blaine teased.

"And modest, too."

Blaine laced his fingers through Kurt's hair, his palms cupping Kurt's chiseled jaw as he kissed him. "God, I've missed you," he said when he pulled away with a smack of their lips.

"So tell me about this arrangement you made with Quinn," Kurt said, releasing himself from Blaine's embrace. "I must tell you, when she said she didn't care what you and I did in private, I nearly fell down dead."

"I had a similar response," Blaine replied. "But I think she simply wants the freedom to live a life free from her father's demands, and she knows I won't expect her to do more than she's willing."

"That's convenient, I suppose."

"Not to mention, her reputation would be harmed as much as mine now that we're married. She's exceptionally smart, and I know she'll find a way to work this to her advantage. If she hadn't been so sick on our honeymoon, I think she would have had it all worked out before we left Paris."

"She looked fine yesterday," Kurt said.

"Well, the nausea has subsided finally."

"Any idea what was wrong?"

Blaine shrugged. "My father said I shouldn't worry. That it was a simple illness, and she'd be back on her feet in no time."

"She must have been eating like a horse in Paris," Kurt said.

"Actually, she barely ate a thing once the sickness took her. Why did you say that?"

"Well, she grew two inches since her last fitting with me," Kurt said. "I assumed it was all that rich food, and she said as m—" Kurt gasped suddenly, his hand falling with a thud against the counter.

"Are you feeling all right?"

Kurt looked at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Blaine, I think Quinn might be pregnant."

"That's impossible," Blaine said with a laugh, knowing they hadn't even consummated their marriage yet.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm _sure_ ," Blaine said. "You think I don't know if my own wife is pregnant?"

"We all have our secrets," Kurt said.

"No, that's simply preposterous. What you're insinuating… there's no way Quinn would– would she?"

* * *

Blaine couldn't bring himself to confront Quinn right away. What if Kurt was wrong? Instead, he watched her, biding his time.

He noticed little things at first: the way she caressed her belly when she thought no one was looking; the longing looks she gave to mothers with small children when they passed on the street. And then one night after dinner, when he noticed her shifting uncomfortably as she tugged at her too-tight dress, he said, "I think it's time we broached the topic of family."

For a scant second, Quinn's eyes went wide before she covered it with tittering laughter. "Darling, we've only been married a few months." Her eyes darted to the maid who was clearing the serving dishes. "And this is hardly appropriate conversation for the dinner table."

"Well, then let's go into the parlor, but I'd like to finish this discussion."

"Very well," Quinn said, rising to her feet. He could see she was straining to keep a pained look off her face, and he was more certain than ever that Kurt had guessed correctly.

When they were out of earshot of the servants who were still bustling about the kitchen, he whispered, "I know about the baby."

Quinn swayed on her feet, Blaine catching her just in time before she swooned right into the fireplace. Her hands were shaking as she clung to his arms for support. Easing her into the nearest chair, Blaine leaned down to catch her gaze. "Just tell me," he said.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself in a way that made Blaine proud. She wasn't going to back down, and he loved her for that.

"It happened the night before the wedding," she said. "I was so upset when I found out about Kurt. I thought you'd been laughing behind my back and making me a fool. I couldn't bear it." She reached up to wipe at a stray tear that rolled down her cheek. "I went to the factory to hide in the bolts of fabric, like I used to do when I was a little girl. The bright colors were always stacked so high, I couldn't see over them, and I could block out the world.

"I was sitting there on the floor, crying, when he found me."

"Who?" Blaine took her hand in his, squeezing softly in encouragement.

"Noah," she said. "Noah Puckeman. He's worked for my father since I was a little girl, and he used to make yarn dolls for me. I had such the schoolgirl's crush on him." She laughed, the sound an eerie contrast to her tears. "When he found me sitting there on the floor, he told me it should be a crime for a beautiful girl to cry." She sniffled. "I was so heartbroken, Blaine. I thought I loved you, but you were with Kurt. And Noah was so sweet. He even came back when his shift ended to check on me, and we talked for hours. When it got late, he offered to walk me home." She paused, a soft smile curling her upper lip as she practically whispered her next words. "He was so gentle and caring… I asked him to take me home with him instead."

"Quinn, you didn't."

She nodded. "I did, and I'm so ashamed. Not because of Noah. I wanted to… and I thought… I _think_ I love him. But because I ruined things for us."

"You didn't ruin anything," Blaine said. But then he remembered the house call his father had made. "Does my father know?"

"Only that I'm pregnant. He assumed it was yours, and I wasn't about to correct that assumption," Quinn said with a bitter laugh. "But I wouldn't let him tell you. I needed more time. So I told him I wanted to wait until I was further along."

"When were you planning on telling me?"

"I hadn't thought that far," she said, sagging against the back of her chair. "I only figured it out when we were in Paris, and then I thought you were running around on Kurt too."

Blaine felt anger bubble up in his chest. "Confound it, Quinn! All this time, I was feeling guilty about Kurt, and you had already been with another man."

"I only did it because I was devastated that my fiancé was in love with someone else!"

"You're having his child, Quinn!"

Her eyes darted around the room, landing anywhere but Blaine's face. "I know," she sobbed as she dropped her head in her hands. "But there's nothing to be done about it now."

Blaine collapsed in his chair, unable to offer up an argument. "I suppose you're right," he said.

Quinn's head shot up, her green eyes wet with tears. "You're not angry?"

"How could I be?" he asked, heaving a weary sigh.

Quinn smiled, her relief obvious in the way she slumped in her chair. "Well, what shall we do about this?"

"I suppose we'll just have to keep each other's secrets now," he said.

* * *

A letter from Felix in late September proved a pleasant diversion amid the confusion caused by Blaine's return and Quinn's unexpected pregnancy. He had sailed to Paris to visit an old friend and enclosed a sketch of the Eiffel Tower that made Kurt homesick for Felix's St. Augustine studio.

_My Dear Friend Kurt,_

_There is much too much scenery to draw and paint here. My hands ache from holding the paintbrush, and I fear I shall never return to my humble studio and comfortable existence as a working artist._

_If you should ever want to travel to Paris — and you must!— please call on my friend Jean-Philippe. He has assured me he would give you a place to stay and a shop to work in. Although, I do caution you that you will grow fat and accustomed to having wine with every meal. Jean-Philippe has let out my trousers once already._

_Last time you write me, you said you were starting a business of your own. How is it faring? Have you taken over the city yet? If not, you will soon. You have magic, my friend. It flows through your veins like life's blood._

_Write soon. I am an old man and don't like to wait to hear from my dear friends._

_Your humble painting master,  
Felix de Crano_

The flourish after the painter's signature was ostentatious to say the least, but it made Kurt smile. He missed his friend's eccentricities, and moreover, his bright laughter and warm smile. As much as he loved the life he had built for himself in New York, Kurt would forever think on his time in St. Augustine fondly, and Felix was a large part of that.

Kurt was jostled from his wistful memories by the jingle of the bell over the shop door.

"Kurt," Blaine's voice called out from downstairs. "Are you here?"

Stashing the letter between the pages of the nearest book, Kurt went to the door to greet Blaine. Instead, he was greeted by a hollow shell of the man, a pale, terrified creature who looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"What's wrong?" Kurt asked, the hairs on the back of his neck feeling like pinpricks against his own skin.

"My grandfather heard about the baby and he's coming for a visit." Blaine's tone was flat, his eyes lifeless, as he spoke.

Kurt felt his heart sink, bottoming out somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach, forcing the bile to threaten the back of his throat. "D-did he say that's the reason?"

"He did, but I have a feeling that's not why he's taking the train up immediately." Blaine crossed the room and collapsed into a chair. "What if he disinherits me? What will become of Quinn? The baby?" He dropped his head in his hands, his body curled in on itself as he hunched over his own lap.

Kurt crossed the room and knelt at his feet, placing his hands on Blaine's knees and trying to catch his gaze. "Darling, don't despair. I'm sure it's not as bad as all that."

"I can't leave her destitute, Kurt. I just can't." Blaine's eyes were watery and desperate when he met Kurt's gaze.

"And you won't," Kurt said, placing his hand over Blaine's where it had come to rest in his lap. "You have your job at Mr. Fabray's factory and he won't leave his daughter and grandchild penniless."

"If he finds out I've been seeing you, though…" Blaine trailed off and ran the back of his hand across his eyes. "It was only by divine providence that we avoided him finding out you made Quinn's dress. If Mary hadn't gotten pregnant, they'd have been at the wedding as planned."

"He won't find out," Kurt said. "Why would my name even come up? And Quinn won't spill the beans."

Blaine sniffed. "You're right," he said. "I know you're right. I just can't help but be terrified by the very notion that he might somehow find out."

"Do you really think his trip has anything to do with us?"

Sighing, Blaine leaned back in the chair and let his head fall against the back of it. "I haven't a clue," he said.

Kurt sat back on his heels and gazed up at Blaine, his forehead creased with worry as he rubbed at his eyes. "Well, I suppose we should lie low for a while?"

The question was rhetorical, but Blaine nodded his confirmation. "What shall I do without you while that infuriating old man is here?"

"You'll manage," Kurt said. "Besides, you have to take care of your family. You said it yourself: You can't leave Quinn destitute."

Blaine tilted his head down and attempted a small, pained-looking smile. "It's not even my baby," he said with a bitter laugh.

Kurt stood up, his shadow falling across Blaine's body as he obscured the light from his gas lamp. He reached down to caress Blaine's cheek. "It _is_ your baby. The rest of the world will not know the difference."

Leaning into Kurt's touch, Blaine closed his eyes and whispered, "The rest of the world knows nothing."

Kurt smiled as he turned sideways and eased himself into Blaine's lap. He pressed a ghost of a kiss to Blaine's temple and inhaled deeply, allowing the comforting scent of Blaine — a mixture of tobacco and pomade that would never leave him — to seep into his memory anew. He needed to make this night last as long as it could.

"Could you stay with me tonight?" Kurt asked. "Will Quinn be cross?"

Blaine's eyes opened to reveal irises nearly obscured by black. "She's probably in bed already," he whispered. "And we have an agreement."

"Then she shan't miss you, and I won't have to. At least not for tonight."

* * *

Blaine's mother demanded that he meet his grandfather at the train station, leaving no room for argument. Therefore, Blaine was standing begrudgingly on the platform trying to pick out his grandfather's thick white mustache from an abundance of thick white mustaches.

"My grandson will handle my trunk."

Blaine spun around to find his grandfather barking orders at a harried looking porter. Blaine tried to give the man a genial smile, but he received only a questioning brow that spurred him to action.

"Yes, right…" Blaine stammered. "The carriage is just over here." He pointed as he began to walk, the porter struggling to keep up as his grandfather sniffed his disdain — whether at Blaine or the porter was unclear.

After the trunk was loaded, Dr. Anderson climbed in the cab without a second glance for the now sweaty porter. Realizing it was down to him to do the proper thing, he dug a few coins out of his pocket and thanked the man for his service. He probably tipped more than necessary, but he felt the need to make up for his grandfather's rudeness, which, truth be told, was largely for Blaine's benefit anyway.

A sharp rapping on the door of the carriage caused Blaine to jump.

"Hurry up, boy," his grandfather scolded. "It's boiling hot in this damned carriage."

Blaine climbed inside and took the seat opposite his grandfather, his gaze falling out the window to avoid the man's icy cold stare. He could feel the blue eyes piercing his skin, their harsh focus zeroed in on Blaine like a spotlight, but he refused to look up from the pavement gliding by as they made their way to Blaine's parents' house. Not a word was spoken, and it both calmed and unnerved Blaine in equal measures. He was grateful not to be forced to speak, but he was also left on tenterhooks regarding his grandfather's visit.

Neither of them spoke until they pulled up in front of the Andersons' residence.

"Benjamin will bring your trunk in," Blaine said, climbing down from the cab. "I'll see you at dinner."

"You're not coming in?" his grandfather asked, and Blaine reveled in the obvious discomfort the man felt at being thwarted in his plans.

"I need to go fetch Quinn," he replied with a genuine smile. "She's at home resting, but we'll be back in time for dinner." He tipped his hat to his grandfather and headed up the street without waiting for a response. He'd won the battle, if not the war.

At dinner, his grandfather fired the first shot.

"Why is your lawyer looking into my estate?"

They had only just started the second course, and Blaine's fork clattered to the plate dramatically. "I'm sorry," he said, trying desperately to recover some sense of decorum as he picked up his fork. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"Don't play coy with me, young man. He contacted John to ask about my will and what you're set to receive. I doubt he did that of his own accord."

"When I found out Quinn was going to have a baby, I wanted to make sure she was taken care of if anything should happen to me. So I asked Sam to make sure there wasn't a codicil in the will that would keep her from inheriting." He glanced over to his wife. "I can't leave her penniless if I should ever meet an untimely death."

His grandfather's snort drew his attention back to the head of the table. "Did you have something to say, Grandfather?" Blaine narrowed his eyes. "Is there something wrong with me wanting to ensure that my wife and child are taken care of?"

"Of course not, darling," his mother said, patting his arm. "I'm sure he's only looking out for your best interests." She turned to her father-in-law. "Right, Andrew?"

Without taking his eyes off Blaine, Dr. Anderson said, "Of course, Helen. He's my grandson. He knows I only want what's best for him."

"Your expectations have always been _quite_ clear," Blaine said, stabbing ferociously at his steak.

He barely spoke for the remainder of the meal, angry that his grandfather always had a way of reducing him to feeling like a small child. Quinn kept quiet as well, only commenting when they were walking home.

"Did you really talk to Sam about me?" she asked, looking down and stroking her barely visible belly. "Us?" she added with a smile.

Kicking at the pavement like a petulant child, Blaine was caught off guard by her question. "What?" he asked, only remembering a few scant words.

"Did you ask Sam to look into your grandfather's will?"

"Oh," Blaine said. "Uh… yes." It wasn't a complete lie; he had asked Sam to look into it. But the idea that he'd been concerned for Quinn had only just occurred to him that night at dinner.

Quinn placed a hand on his arm to stop him. Blaine turned his head to face her and found her misty-eyed and smiling.

"Thank you," she said.

Blaine waved her off. "You don't need to thank me."

"I know this has been tough on you," she said, stroking her belly once more. "I just want you to know that I appreciate it. You're going to be a great father."

Something in Blaine swelled at that moment— a warmth he hadn't felt before. He was going to be a father. Even knowing that the baby wasn't truly his didn't make a difference, because it would be his in name, and with any luck, the baby would have Quinn's peachy complexion and dainty nose. It would not be hard to love a baby that would call him Daddy. Or Pop. Definitely not father.

"I'm going to be a father," he said.

"Yes, you are," Quinn said with a smile.

"You're going to be a mother, and I'm going to be a father!"

Quinn giggled. "That's usually how it works, dear."

"Wow," Blaine said, sounding a little breathless. He was overwhelmed with the urge to take care of both Quinn and the baby, which he was suddenly and quite inexplicably certain was a little girl. "We should call her Ruby."

Quinn looked confused. "What if it's a boy?"

"It won't be."

"Blaine…"

"Or Madeline. Definitely not Adelaide."

"You're positively giddy," Quinn said. "But I think we have time to come up with a name. Not to mention, it could be a boy."

Waving a dismissive hand in her direction, Blaine kept on thinking aloud. "I really should go see Sam tomorrow and let him know what happened; make sure everything is settled."

Still looking confused, Quinn said, "If you think that's best. But do send him my regards. I think it's lovely that he'd help us out like this."

"Of course," Blaine said, but he was already mentally preparing what he wanted to say to Sam.

* * *

Without Blaine to cling to, Kurt again immersed himself in work, taking on new clients without regard for sleeping at night. He worked until his fingers were raw and aching, and then he worked some more, and still only two weeks had passed.

He was hunched over a heavy silk taffeta gown with more beading than he had ever attempted before, cursing the tiny stitches, when Chandler burst through the door, all color and life and whistling a bawdy tune.

"Good afternoon, Kurt," he sang.

"Hello, Chandler," Kurt replied, without looking up.

A shadow fell over him, blocking his light. He glared up at Chandler. "Do you mind?"

"Sorry," he said, stepping back and leaning on the counter. "You work too hard."

"I need to make a living, Chandler. We can't all be gentlemen's playthings."

"You wound me," Chandler said, but Kurt could tell he wasn't as offended as he wanted Kurt to believe. "And you could if you wanted to."

"Could what?"

"Be a gentleman's plaything."

Kurt glared up at him over the edge of his spectacles. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Oh come on, Kurt. You are a handsome, virile young man. The fellas I run with would take one look at you and empty their purses in your lap without giving it a second thought."

Kurt considered it. Of course, he knew he'd grown into his looks over the years, the roundness in his face giving way to a more masculine jawline, and he'd grown several inches in just the last three years. But he couldn't quite shake the cruel words that had been lobbed at him as a schoolboy. "My arms are like twigs, and my nose is too big for my face," he said, returning his attention to his work.

"Your arms are perfectly fine," Chandler said. "Strong even. And your nose is prominent but it's really quite distinguished."

Kurt glanced at himself in the mirror, trying to see what Chandler saw. Blaine did seem to pay extra attention to his nose. He turned sideways to catch as much as he could of his own profile. Perhaps it wasn't so bad.

Chandler giggled behind him.

"Oh, stop," Kurt said, and went back to sewing.

"All I'm saying is that you could make more money as a rent boy," Chandler said. "You just let me know if you ever change your mind."

Exasperated, Kurt dropped his needle and leveled Chandler with a stern look. "Did you come here to recruit me or do you have other business?"

Chandler sighed. "I was only wondering if you'd like to have a night off. Go out on the town with me, but if you're too busy…"

Despite the fact that Kurt knew he trailed off to intentionally goad him into saying yes, he really could use a night away from the tiny stitches that had his hands cramping and his back screaming in agony when he laid his head on the pillow at night. He set the dress down, smoothing the fabric so it wouldn't wrinkle, and stuck the needle in a pincushion.

"Where to, Mr. Kiehl?" he asked, removing his glasses and retrieving his hat and overcoat from the stand in the corner.

Chandler practically clapped his hands in delight. "You won't regret this."

"Let's hope not," Kurt replied.

* * *

The dreary fall weather seemed to mimic Blaine's conflicted thoughts, and he was so distracted that he left his umbrella at home, forcing him to walk six blocks in the rain. And now he sat across from Sam, dripping helplessly onto the carpet.

"So, I heard Quinn's already expecting," Sam said. "You work quickly."

"That's one way of putting it," Blaine said, shaking some of the water from his clothing.

"What's the other way?"

"Nevermind," Blaine replied. "That's not why I'm here. Well, not really." Blaine took out a cigarette and lit it, grateful his matchsafe had kept his matches dry. On the first inhale, he sat back in his chair and let the calm wash over him. "My grandfather confronted me about you contacting his attorney in Florida."

Sam's eyes went wide. "I swear I was careful," he said, immediately defensive.

Blaine held up a hand. "It's alright," he said. "I told him I came to see you about setting up Quinn and the baby should something happen to me." Absently, he flicked the ash from his cigarette on the floor — not the most civilized action, but he didn't see an ashtray out. "So, I will need you to draft a will for me."

"Of course," Sam said, pulling out a pen and dipping it in the ink. "I assume you want to leave your estate to Quinn and the child when he or she is of age."

Blaine nodded, but knew it wasn't quite enough. "I want it so iron-clad that she will never have to answer to anyone. So she won't have to remarry… unless she wants to, of course." He took another drag of his cigarette. "There can't be any loopholes — not for her father, or my parents… no one."

"I understand," Sam said. "But why the urgency?"

Blaine wasn't sure. He simply felt the need to provide for his wife and unborn child and now seemed as good a time as ever. "It's just a precaution," he said. "Should something happen to me — an illness, an accident — I want her to be her own woman."

"Hopefully those are unlikely events, but I respect your foresight. An accidental death would be a shock, and you wouldn't want to leave her out in the cold."

"She just shouldn't have to rely on anyone, not if she's grieving _and_ has a child to raise. Now that I'm 25 and married, I have started receiving payments from my trust. Can we make sure that's transferred to her when I die?"

"It's one thing to be responsible, Blaine, but you've really thought this through." Sam chuckled. "Should I be worried you're going to disappear on me?"

"What?" Blaine asked, incredulous at the notion. "Of course not. I'm just looking out for my family. If I'm set to inherit that kind of money, I need to ensure it's not lumped back into my grandfather's estate, leaving my wife and child nothing."

"Okay, I get the point," Sam said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Just promise me one thing."

"Of course."

"You won't run off with that Kurt fellow and leave me holding the bag."

Blaine's heartbeat increased its tempo. He swallowed and gave Sam a reassuring smile. "No, of course not."

* * *

Chandler succeeded in getting Kurt to let loose a few nights a week, and soon Blaine's grandfather would be gone; things could return to normal. Even so, Kurt had grown fond of Chandler and was glad to have another man in his life who understood his predicaments.

Kurt paced, a lit cigarette clenched between his teeth, as he waited for Chandler to arrive. It wasn't rare for Chandler to show up late to Kurt's shop on the nights they would go to the theatre together, but he had missed the play entirely, and that was completely unlike him. Kurt eventually tried to sleep, but he tossed and turned and only managed to doze for about an hour just before sunrise. When Chandler still hadn't made an appearance by late morning, Kurt was really and truly worried.

His arrival at Columbia Hall was greeted by a fairy Kurt only knew as Lady Bougainvillea, who told Kurt that he hadn't seen Chandler since the day before.

"He had a new client at Miss Lopez's. You know, that place on West 27th that's a more traditional brothel? They specialize in discretion for clients who don't want to be seen in the Bowery."

Kurt nodded, remembering the gentleman who'd given him a calling card for the boarding house when he'd first visited Columbia Hall so many months ago.

"And he never came back?"

"Not that I saw," Lady B replied. "He said he had plans last night, though. So he's probably still with his gentleman from yesterday."

"He was supposed to meet me," Kurt said, deflating. "He never showed up."

Lady B clapped Kurt on the shoulder. "I wouldn't worry, darling. He probably got tied up with his client. That boy has a way with the fickle ones. I'd wager he comes back with a fat wad of cash and a regular weekly appointment."

"I'm sure you're right," Kurt said, even as something sank low and ominous in his gut. There was nothing else to do but try to locate Chandler at Miss Lopez's.

The building itself was unassuming, little more than a basic boarding house, with a sign out front proudly proclaiming it to be Miss Lopez's Ladies Seminary.

Before his fist could strike the door, it swung open to reveal a dark-haired woman glaring up at Kurt. Her brown eyes were narrowed and suspicious, her full lips pursed.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Uh, yes…hello," Kurt stammered. "I was looking for Chandler Kiehl."

"He's not available," she spat, and started to close the door. Kurt caught it with his foot at the last second.

"Please," he said. "He's my friend, and I'm worried about him."

The woman paused, her eyes shifting to the floor and back into the house.

"You should tell him, Santana," a soft monotone voice said from the other side of the door. A blonde woman peeked out from behind it. "Hello," she said.

Kurt smiled at her, but returned his attention to the woman who had answered the door. "Miss Lopez, I promise I won't cause any trouble. I just want to know what happened to my friend."

She looked him up and down for a moment, as if she were weighing and measuring him with her eyes. She must have decided Kurt passed the test, because she swung open the door and beckoned him inside. She didn't speak until they were seated in her parlor. The young blonde from the door brought them tea and left them alone.

"How much do you know about my business, Mr…?"

"Hummel," Kurt said. "Only that you specialize in discretion."

"So I'm sure you'll understand why I was so reticent to let you in," she said. "I have to be very careful about who I let through my doors. I cater to a clientele that demands discretion. The men and women who come here have prominent family names, money… prestige. Not everyone wants to flounce around the Bowery with powdered men masquerading as ugly women."

Kurt bristled at that. Some of those "ugly women" were his friends. "I understand," he said, his voice pinched and thin. "Could you tell me where Chandler is?"

Miss Lopez took a sip of her tea, slowly pulling the cup from her lips, the china clinking as she set it and saucer on the small table to her left. "He's dead," she said plainly and without making eye contact.

Kurt's teacup made a much louder sound when it shattered at his feet. His hands were shaking when he looked down at them, but his brain was still processing her words. "He's… what?"

"Dead," Miss Lopez repeated. "We had an unfortunate incident last night with a client and poor Chandler paid the price."

"What sort of _incident_?" Kurt demanded, practically spitting the last word.

"I had a client who specifically asked for him," she said. "Not unusual, especially with Chandler, so I set up an appointment for them." She paused and picked up her teacup again, taking another excruciatingly long sip.

Kurt wanted to ask her to just get on with it, but his throat felt tight, and the words would not form. As he waited for her to set the cup down again, it felt like he was watching one of his and Chandler's plays rather than living this moment. The clink of the china was the orchestration of the scene. His eyes fell on the shattered teacup at his feet, the scenery of this tragedy. He knew the wet spot on the floor would surely stain, but he couldn't make his limbs move to clean it up, and Miss Lopez seemed unconcerned. So he watched the light reflecting in his wasted tea; as the wind blew through the tree out front, the shadows danced across the surface of the puddle.

"This _gentleman_ was apparently one of those appalling miscreants who hate themselves and has to take it out on others. He practically begged me for a young, pretty boy, and when he saw Mr. Kiehl he was gone. He wouldn't settle for another rent boy after that."

"I bet Chandler was flattered," Kurt said wryly.

"He was," Miss Lopez said with a fleeting smile. "I've never seen the kid so excited." She looked down at the wet spot between Kurt's feet. "I should get Brittany to clean that up," she said absently.

Now that he'd found his voice, Kurt wanted her to just finish her story. "What happened, Miss Lopez? How did he die?" Kurt swallowed heavily.

Miss Lopez looked up at him, her eyes vacant for a moment before she shook her head and smiled at him. "Yes, of course," she said. "Well, everything was relatively normal, nothing out of the ordinary. Mr. Karofsky received the services he paid for and left."

"Karofsky?" Kurt asked. "Is his first name David, by chance?"

"You know him?" Miss Lopez asked, wide-eyed.

Kurt nodded slowly. He had gone to school with David and knew firsthand the temper and anger that simmered beneath the surface of a baby-faced young man who had once called Kurt a disgusting fairy before spitting on him and pushing him into the street. He shivered at the memory.

"What happened then?"

"Well, Mr. Kiehl left not long after Mr. Karofsky and apparently the two spoke on the street not far from here. One of my girls saw them. She said Mr. Karofsky was visibly angry and shouted, 'I don't know you, sir. Please step away from me before I summon the police.' She said Mr. Kiehl laughed at him and set off in the opposite direction whistling and swinging his walking stick. Becky said Mr. Karofsky stood on the corner for a bit, smoking a cigarette, and then set off in the direction Mr. Kiehl had gone." She paused and reached into a silver box on the table next to her teacup, retrieving a cigarette. "Do you mind?" she asked.

Kurt shook his head and leaned forward in his chair.

Miss Lopez lit her cigarette and took an exaggerated drag. She looked like she was steeling herself for what she had to say next. Kurt's blood ran cold. The cloud of smoke settled between them like a heavy curtain, giving the room an ominous ghostly aura. Was Chandler simply a cloud of smoke now? Or a mere memory in Kurt's mind and no longer the cheerful young man who had stumbled through the streets of Atlanta with him earlier that year? Kurt suddenly wished he had a cigarette too, but his hands were still shaking, and he didn't trust himself to light one.

The silence had practically become a character in the tragedy playing out before them by the time Miss Lopez spoke again.

"They found his body in an alley three blocks over," she said. "He was beaten brutally, his face unrecognizable. I only found out because Mr. Kiehl had one of my calling cards on him and they came to ask me if I knew him. I identified him by his clothing." Her face remained stoic, but her eyes were watery as she took another long drag of her cigarette. Kurt realized she was the first woman he'd ever seen smoke and he didn't find it at all odd. Somehow, the act suited Miss Lopez in a way he didn't think it would suit Rachel or Quinn. It was an odd thought, considering the circumstances.

"Where is Mr. Karofsky?" Kurt asked, his voice reed-thin and shaky. His frayed nerves gave him unexpected courage. It wasn't as if he could take on the man he knew was quite a bit larger and more muscular than himself, but his rage had taken over.

"The police questioned him but once they figured out _what_ Mr. Kiehl was, they decided not to investigate further."

"That's unconscionable!"

"Mr. Hummel, do you really expect the police to care about a rent boy when the man who killed him was an upstanding gentleman with piles of money?" She stubbed out her cigarette. "Your friend was a second-class citizen, and as far as the police are concerned, Karofsky did them a favor."

Kurt's heart sank. She was right.

He barely remembered the rest of his visit after that. He had a vague memory of the blonde girl cleaning up his shattered teacup, and Miss Lopez promising she'd never let David Karofsky in her establishment again, but otherwise it was a foggy blur.

Kurt's only thought was to get to Blaine.

* * *

It was Dr. Anderson's last day in New York and Blaine's mother wanted to host a tea in honor of Quinn.

A knock at the door caused his mother to glance around the room questioningly. "Everyone I invited is here," she said. "I wonder who that could be."

Blaine's grandfather rose to his feet. "I'll see to it, Helen. You're the hostess; you should stay with your guests."

Something in his expression set Blaine on edge. It wasn't like his grandfather to volunteer to perform duties ordinarily reserved for servants. Answering the door certainly fell within that category. Even as he chatted with Quinn's cousin, his eyes kept flitting to the door of the parlor, impatiently awaiting his grandfather's return.

When the door slammed a few moments later, he jumped. Dr. Anderson strode into the room with purpose. "Blaine, I need to speak with you," he said without preamble.

Blaine rose to his feet and followed him out of the room and into the library.

Dr. Anderson did not wait for Blaine to speak. "That was your _friend_ Mr. Hummel," he spat. He pulled a cigar from Blaine's father's humidor and cut the tip.

"Grandfather, I swear…"

Dr. Anderson held up a hand. "He told me you did not know he was coming by, and I believed him. But I told him that if he ever darkened our door again, I would have him arrested."

"You didn't!" Blaine shrieked.

"You're to have NO contact with him, Blaine. I made that clear. He needs to understand that this family has a reputation to protect, and I will not have him sullying our good name."

"What if he needed something?"

"If that's the case, I'm sure he has other friends he can call on," Dr. Anderson replied. "Now, let's get back to the party. It's rude to leave your guests."

Blaine didn't respond; he simply followed his grandfather back to the parlor where he sulked for the remainder of the afternoon.

That night, unable to wait to see Kurt, he set about drafting a letter.

_My darling,_

_Please forgive my grandfather's harsh words. I know that something terrible must have happened for you to risk showing up unannounced. Please know that his words are not my words, and I am forever yours — no matter what he says._

_I am reminded of a passage from Dorian Gray:_

" _When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external influence I my life…I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray…I had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows…I take no credit to myself for trying to escape…It was simply inevitable. We would have spoken to each other without any introduction, I am sure of that. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined to know each other."_

_We were destined to know each other, my love, and I will cherish that thought always._

_All my love,  
B_

He considered including a promise to call on him soon, but he couldn't risk it being intercepted and someone being able to catch them together. But before he sealed it, he enclosed the photo of him that had been taken in St. Augustine and signed it, "Someday. – B." He made sure he handed it to the postman himself.

* * *

Scared, and without Blaine to tether him, Kurt felt utterly lost. Blaine's grandfather had told him in no uncertain terms that Blaine had decided to focus on his family and that he'd never see him again. So when he received a letter from Blaine a day later — a letter that did nothing to dispute such a claim — he was certain it was true.

He had placed the photo along with the letter inside his copy of Dorian Gray and shelved it.

Kurt felt alone and drifting. He hadn't been able to work since he'd heard about Chandler, and his last few orders went unfinished. He began to box up things that reminded him of Blaine, unable to face them every day. He had just finished going through the items on his desk, when he noticed a slip of paper sticking out of a book he'd never finished reading.

It was the last letter he'd received from Felix. He read it again, and knew instantly what he wanted to do.

He dashed off a quick note to the painter, and put it in the mail that same day. Without Blaine and the specter of Chandler's death haunting him, he had no reason to stay. His dad had Carole, and Rachel had Finn. All he had was a business that reminded him of his friend's tragic death and a love he could no longer call his own. All of the loose ends were tied up with neat little bows, and it felt too dangerous to stay. He needed to get away from it all – Karofsky, Chandler, Blaine, New York.

He started packing that very night.

* * *

Kurt's soul was a magnet pulling Blaine onward. He had waited several days after his grandfather left to go see Kurt and he was brimming with need to touch him.

But when Blaine arrived, he found Kurt's shop closed, his apartment empty. There was no trace of him to be found.

Blaine's heart sank.

* * *

Rachel wrote to Kurt at his new address in Paris a few weeks later, telling him that Blaine had called on Burt to ask about him. She said, Blaine had been frantic about finding him. For two days he let himself hope that Blaine would come to see him.

After a week, he started looking for a letter.

After a month, he decided to move on.

* * *

Blaine had a plan. He needed to get to Paris to see Kurt. There was no other choice.

"I'm sailing to Europe, but I'll be back before the baby is born," Blaine said as he threw a few things in his trunk.

Quinn's face fell. "Do you have to go now?" she asked. "What if something happens?"

He kissed her on the forehead. "You'll be fine, darling. I wouldn't go if it weren't absolutely necessary." His heart ached in his chest at the look forlorn look on her face. He wished there was something to do to comfort her, but he had to see Kurt. He knew it in his soul.

He kissed his wife again as he left her waving sadly in the doorway to their house, her belly beginning to swell with a child that would never truly be his. Blaine pushed his hat down on his head, and wrapped himself in his overcoat.

"We should name her Elizabeth," he said.

"What if it's a boy?" Quinn replied for the hundredth time.

"It's a girl," he said, as certain as he'd ever been in his life. He offered Quinn one last smile and climbed into the waiting carriage.

The boat Blaine had hired was small, more like a small fishing boat than an ocean liner, but it would have to suffice. The night air was cold and damp, and the water choppy and dark.

Blaine leaned far over the edge to watch the waves crash against the side of the boat. As he reached for the railing, his hand slipped, causing his elbow to strike the hard surface instead. As he tried to right himself, his foot slipped on the slick, damp wood beneath his feet, and he fell into the sea, the water like icy needles against his skin before the blackness consumed him.


	20. Chapter 20

**** November 1895 ****

Kurt opened the window and inhaled deeply. The air smelled of fresh-baked bread, and it made the cool fall breeze seem warmer somehow. New York had never smelled so homey and pure; the air there was a stagnant cloud of coal dust and oppression. He rolled his sleeves up and relished the gooseflesh that rose on his skin as he set to work on a new gown.

His French was improving, and Jean-Philippe had finally let him work with a customer on a design. It seemed as if everything was finally falling into place for him at last, freeing him from his caged existence, and even though he wished he could share it with Blaine, he didn't regret leaving New York for a second.

Kurt smiled and smoothed out the silk before him. It was a pure white, practically iridescent in the morning light, and it felt like a fresh start. In Paris he was a mysterious American with none of the baggage that had plagued him at home, and now that he was working for the House of Worth, he was more in-demand than he had ever been in New York.

"That silk is gorgeous," Jean-Philippe said, looking over Kurt's shoulder. "Wedding gown?"

"Just a gown," Kurt said.

Jean Philippe tutted at him. "There is no such thing," he said. "All garments are art."

Kurt laughed, always amused by the designer's ability to make the simplest of afternoon dresses into a masterpiece. Jean-Philippe's father had made the name Worth synonymous with lavish fabrics and trimmings, while incorporating historic elements and perfect tailoring into every piece. Most of Worth's garments were one-of-a-kind, and they had designed for royalty and many of the wealthiest women in Europe.

After Charles Worth's death earlier that year, Jean-Philippe and his brother, Gaston, went looking for tailors and dressmakers to help them complete their creations on schedule, and Kurt had lucked into his position. Felix, of course, had put in a good word, but it was Kurt's attention to detail that had secured him the job.

When he had shown Jean-Philippe the sketches of Quinn's wedding gown, he had gushed for hours. Kurt had been working at the designer's side ever since.

"The silk is already art," Kurt explained, stroking a careful hand down the cool slip of fabric, relishing the feel of it under his fingers. "I will do what it tells me and make it a masterpiece."

Patting Kurt on the back, Jean-Philippe said, "You have learned from me already, Monsieur Hummel."

"How are the fittings with the models going?" Kurt asked. Jean-Philippe had been preparing for one of their shows that would secure them new orders for the spring.

"Sometimes I regret ever working with live models," he said. "It would be so much easier to fit a dress form that can't complain about the stays being too tight or tripping over the hem."

"Yes, but think of all the money you will make," Kurt said, knowing Jean-Philippe loved both the attention and the profit that came from their shows. "Women in New York have begun talking about your work. Soon your designs will span the globe."

"You flatter me," Jean-Philippe said with a grin. "And I love it."

Kurt laughed brightly, his face stretched into a broad smile that made his face ache for a moment. Smiling had come slowly, but Jean-Philippe made it easy to find joy in life, and after all, Kurt was doing what he loved.

"You flatter yourself, Monsieur Worth," Kurt said, knowing his accent still needed work. But he used French words as often as he could to practice.

"Do you know the actress Sarah Bernhardt?" Jean-Philippe asked.

Kurt's eyes went wide. "Not personally, but she's quite famous. She was in Wilde's _Salomé_ , wasn't she?"

Jean-Philippe nodded with a knowing smile. "She has asked me to design something new for her. Would you like to do a few sketches as well?"

Kurt's heart leapt into his throat. "Of course," he said, crossing to his drawing table for a stick of charcoal. "Did she give you any direction?"

"Only that she didn't want pale pink — said it washes her out on stage. But she trusts me implicitly. So if I approve your designs, she will want them made. You know, she once sent me a _petit bleu_ telling me her roles lose their magic when I do not design for her."

"She knows your work well, then," Kurt said, suddenly feeling the weight of the task pressing down upon him.

"She trusts me," Jean-Philippe reassured, "and I trust you."

Kurt smiled wanly as he watched Jean-Philippe leave, the ivory silk forgotten as he began sketching fervently.

* * *

Sometimes at night, when he was feeling particularly homesick, Kurt would take out his copy of _Dorian Gray_ and let his thumb stroke the edge of Blaine's photograph while he read the letter. Each time, it felt more and more like a goodbye, and Kurt resigned himself to the fact that he'd only ever have those few scant words to remember Blaine by.

In some ways, Kurt was content with Blaine's choice. He knew that Blaine would make an excellent father and that Quinn would never treat him poorly, but it didn't replace the ache in his chest from the hole left behind when he'd first read Blaine's letter.

When he worked late, Kurt would find himself absentmindedly reciting the letter to himself, particularly the last line: _We were destined to know each other, my love, and I will cherish that thought always._

It reassured him that he hadn't loved Blaine for nothing. He would carry that knowledge close to his heart until the day he died.

Kurt started letters to him on more than one occasion, burning the evidence in the fireplace of his small apartment, watching the flames lick the wounds of his words as it engulfed them, hiding his broken heart from sight.

He'd had several offers from men and boys in Paris. The love seemed freer than it had been in New York — a delightful change — but even so, he abstained. It wasn't because he was harboring notions that Blaine would suddenly come for him, but rather a way of reminding himself that he had goals and dreams to achieve. He would not let love divert his attention again, if it were even possible to love someone as he had loved Blaine — as he _still_ loved Blaine.

That did not mean that he was never tempted, though.

Kurt was seated at a café, sipping rich French coffee and reading the most popular Parisian newspaper, Le Petit Journal, when a lanky man with a leering smile approached him.

"Bonjour, Monsieur," the man said.

"Bonjour," Kurt replied, his accent still not quite perfect.

"Oh, you _are_ American," the man said, not a trace of accent in his voice.

Kurt raised his chin. "I am," he said. "Is that a problem?"

"Not at all," the man said, taking the chair next to him without being asked. "My name is Sebastian Smythe."

"Kurt Hummel."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hummel," he said with a nod. "So, what brings you to gay Paree?"

"I'm a dressmaker," he said. "I work at House of Worth."

Sebastian whistled. "Fancy," he said. "Just like you." His resulting wink irked Kurt to the point of exasperation.

Kurt sighed. "Mr. Smythe, I'm sure you are a very nice gentleman, and ordinarily I'd just ignore your presumption and brashness, but I'd really like to enjoy my newspaper and coffee before I have to get to work, if you don't mind."

"Actually, I do mind," he said before leaning in close and whispering in Kurt's ear, "I'm not the sort to take no for an answer."

In spite of himself, Kurt shivered and closed his eyes. It had been nearly two months since he'd been touched by a man, and he was only human. And a young man of 19 at that.

"Mr. Smythe, I'm really not interested."

"Not yet," Sebastian replied.

Kurt looked up to bite back with his own retort, but Sebastian was already standing up and walking away. Dumbfounded, Kurt returned his attention to his paper, though he found himself unable to focus on the words.

When he returned to the Worth shop, the place was a flurry of activity the likes of which Kurt had never seen.

"What's all the commotion?" Kurt asked one of the seamstresses.

She looked at him peculiarly until Kurt remembered she didn't speak English.

"Ah, Kurt, you're back," Jean-Philippe called out. "Do you have your sketches ready? Madame Bernhardt will be here at any moment.

Kurt's heart began to race. "Yes, of course," he said. "Will I be presenting them myself?"

"No, my boy," Jean-Philippe said with a laugh. "She must think they are my genius, and mine alone, but never fear, once she falls in love with your garments, I will let the cat out of the bag. You will see."

Kurt reached into his folio and pulled out the three sketches he had prepared. "Do I have time to add some color to this one?" he said, pointing at his favorite of the three. "I only had time to finish the embroidery, and–"

"No time," Jean-Philippe said, yanking the papers from Kurt's hand. "Now make yourself scarce. Don't you have a gown to finish for Mademoiselle Haubois?"

He was in the back room cutting satin for the gown's lining when he remembered his signature was on the bottom of all three of his sketches. Just as he was about to warn Jean-Philippe, he heard the shop's bell jingle, and a great commotion followed. Madame Bernhardt had arrived. He only hoped his name was scribbled quickly enough that it couldn't be read.

Unable to focus, Kurt leaned up against the counter and picked at his cuticles, listening to the clock over the mantle as it ticked each second louder than the last.

After twenty minutes, he began pacing. After thirty, he lit a cigarette. When an hour had passed, he started to organize the fabric swatches by color. At an hour-twenty, he organized them by fabric.

When Jean-Philippe finally poked his head around the curtain separating the workroom from the ornate door to the shop more than two hours later, Kurt had also untangled three bundles of embroidery thread and was sharpening a pair of scissors with a pin. At Jean-Philippe's beaming smile, he missed the pin and stabbed himself in the finger with the scissors.

"Damn!" He sucked on the tip of his index finger as he looked up at Jean-Philippe. "Well, don't leave me all on tenterhooks now that I'm injured. Did she like them?"

"Oh, she loved _my_ designs," Jean-Philippe teased, his dark eyes dancing with mirth.

"Damn you French bastards," Kurt chided. "You're positively infuriating."

"Don't be cross, mon chou," he said, tweaking Kurt's nose. "She loved yours as well. In fact, she ordered all five dresses I showed her."

Kurt clapped his hands together, disregarding the sting of the cut on his finger, and began to bounce excitedly on his feet. Unable to hold back his elation, he threw his arms about Jean-Philippe and spun them around the stool he had been sitting on.

"Oh my goodness," Kurt said, stopping short. "I need to get to work. I have so much to do."

Jean-Philippe's chuckle echoed through the room as Kurt hurried to finish cutting the satin he had abandoned two hours before. Kurt worked well into the night, and every night for the next three weeks, until he was certain he was well ahead of schedule on all his projects and could begin on the actress' dress.

As it turned out, Madame Bernhardt liked Kurt's favorite sketch as it was: without the extra color he had wanted to add. Instead of the red taffeta he had planned, Kurt made the dress from a pale cream satin, with elegant black beading and an understated red velvet trim.

After more than a week working on the gown, he finished by stitching in the tag that read, "Worth, 7 Rue de la Paix, Paris" and smiled. It was his first finished piece that would be worn by a woman with a recognizable name, and he could hardly contain his joy. A stray tear rolled down his cheek and threatened to stain the fabric, but he caught it just as it reached his chin, wiping the back of his hand across his face.

He stood up and stretched, his back popping and cracking like a damp fire as he yawned. His eyes were dry and aching, his hands stiff and red, but it was a good ache.

"Mother, I wish you were here to see this," he whispered to the empty room. And then he turned out the light.

* * *

"If I wasn't a gentleman, I would tear her limb from limb!" Jean-Philippe shouted. "Of all the insensitive, childish, manipulative—!" He paced through the salon, shouting obscenities and kicking at mannequins and dress forms without regard for the toppling displays. He upset a table laden with finger sandwiches and tea that splattered all over a blue organdy day dress whose owner was to pick it up that very afternoon. The seamstress who had just finished pressing it began to cry as the specks of tea soaked into the thin fabric, ruining the garment and destroying her hard work.

Kurt tried to appease him, offering to help fix whatever was wrong, if only Jean-Philippe would tell him what that was.

"What a horrifying wretch of a woman!" Jean-Philippe spat. "I can't believe I ever designed a thing for her, let alone my best work."

"Who?" Kurt begged for the third time since Jean-Philippe had begun ranting.

Jean Philippe laughed bitterly. " 'Who?' you ask me. 'Who?'" He flung his arms about like a madman as he continued to laugh. Kurt was growing worried for the man's state of mind.

"That does seem to be the question Monsieur Hummel asked," one of the girls in the shop offered.

Jean-Philippe turned to her, his face a brilliant shade of red. "Who asked you?" He pointed at the door. "Get out of my shop!"

The girl scowled at him, but didn't utter a word. Kurt tried to give her a comforting smile, knowing Jean-Philippe would not fire her once he calmed down, but he still felt badly for the poor thing.

The rest of the girls scurried off to the back room to get out of the fray. Jean-Philippe collapsed into one of the plush chairs near the floor-length mirror at the rear of the shop. Kurt walked silently toward him and crossed his arms, waiting for Jean-Philippe to speak. He would not make the same mistake as the seamstress.

"That infernal woman took our designs to Callot Soeurs and had her dresses made," he said softly, his voice now a soft contrast to his earlier rantings.

"Who?" Kurt asked again.

"Madame Bernhardt," Jean-Philippe said with a sigh. "She gave them the sketches for three of the dresses she had ordered from us and they offered the gowns to her for less money."

Kurt swallowed heavily as his hands began to shake. "Which dresses?"

Jean-Philippe looked up at him with apologetic eyes. "Yours and two of mine."

Collapsing into the chair next to Jean-Philippe, Kurt could already feel the sting of tears that threatened to spill. He blinked rapidly trying to hide his distress from his employer.

Jean-Philippe placed a hand on Kurt's knee. "I'm so sorry, Kurt."

Kurt sniffed once and rose to his feet, tugging his waistcoat down to straighten it. "That's quite alright," he said. "I still have the dress. We can sell it to someone else."

Averting his gaze from Kurt, Jean-Philippe pinched the bridge of his nose. "Well…" he began.

Kurt felt his blood run cold. "What happened to my dress?" he hissed.

"It might have gotten a bit torn when I was having my fit earlier," he said, opening one eye to peer up at Kurt.

"You what?" Kurt seethed.

"I was upset," Jean-Philippe reasoned. "It was an accident."

Kurt let out a frustrated breath and dropped his hands to his sides. "Well, isn't that just the icing on the blasted cake!"

"I truly am sorry," Jean-Philippe added.

Clenching his fist, Kurt could feel his anger bubbling up. "If you'll excuse me," he spat and turned heel. He didn't stop walking until he reached his usual café, deciding a bottle of wine sounded far better than stomping through the streets of Paris pouting like a petulant child.

Kurt was on his last glass when a long shadow crossed over him.

"Hello, Kurt."

Glancing up, Kurt was met with a broad smile and flirtatious eyes. "Hello, Sebastian," he said with a groan.

"Now, is that anyway to greet an old friend?"

"We are _not_ friends," Kurt said, taking a sip of his wine and feeling his head buzz with the familiar fog of drunkenness.

"Future lover, then," Sebastian whispered, placing a hand on Kurt's arm.

Kurt snorted. "Doubtful."

Taking the seat opposite him, Sebastian clasped a hand to his heart. "You wound me," he said.

The gesture seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it. He took another sip of his wine. "I don't remember asking you to sit down," he said to Sebastian.

"I don't remember asking your permission."

Kurt opened his mouth in protest, but Sebastian was already flagging down the waiter and lighting a cigarette, as if this had all been a planned engagement. He ordered another bottle of wine in perfect French.

"You are an absolute cad," Kurt said, swirling the dregs of his wine.

"Thank you," Sebastian said, taking a drag on his cigarette.

Kurt's head shot up. "That wasn't a compliment."

Sebastian merely shrugged. "Let me ask you something," he said.

Kurt finished his wine. "I have a feeling you will ask it whether I allow it or not."

Sebastian watched a carriage roll by in the street, the smoke from his cigarette curling away in the slight breeze. "Why do I always see you alone, Mr. Hummel? A handsome young gentleman such as yourself should have a captivating lover to keep him company."

Looking for his words, Kurt bit his lip, trying to stop himself from bursting into tears or blurting out his entire life story. "Perhaps I like being alone," he stated.

Sebastian laughed. "That's rich," he said. "No one likes being alone."

"Some do," Kurt said, bristling at Sebastian's judgment.

"Not by choice." Sebastian looked like he might continue, but the waiter arrived with the bottle of wine he had ordered. When he had left, Sebastian leaned back in his chair and sipped the deep ruby liquid from his glass.

"So what's your story?" he asked after a moment. "Lover abandoned you? His family found out?" He paused and leaned forward in his chair and whispered, "He was murdered?"

Caught off guard by the accuracy of some of Sebastian's guesses, Kurt sputtered as he tried to respond. His flustered stammering must have struck Sebastian as funny because he began to chuckle, the sound muffled as he pulled the glass of wine to his lips and took another sip. "So I'm correct," he said when he had swallowed. "Which is it?"

"You're dead wrong," Kurt said, lifting his chin in his most defensive expression. "You know nothing about me. So please stop pretending that you do."

"Mr. Hummel, pardon my brashness, but I wouldn't have to pretend if you'd just have a conversation with me." His smile held nothing of the smirk he was usually sporting, and something in his hazel eyes made Kurt thaw a little.

"I've just had a really terrible day," Kurt said with a sigh. "I'm sorry if I was rude."

"Not at all," Sebastian said. "I appreciate the challenge."

Kurt snorted. "You really do think highly of yourself, don't you, Mr. Smythe?"

"I like to think I have an accurate assessment of myself," he said with a smile. The corner of his mouth turned up with the hint of a smirk, but this time Kurt found it amusing rather than annoying.

"Do you not have an employer who will miss you?" Kurt asked when he could think of nothing else to say.

"Don't you?" Sebastian replied.

"I took the afternoon off."

Sebastian nodded. "I work at this café," he said, stubbing out his cigarette and finishing his glass of wine. He stood up and pulled a scrap of paper out of his breast pocket and handed it to Kurt.

"If you'd like to stop being lonely, that's where you can find me," he said, pointing to the paper in Kurt's hand. "I'd be happy to show you what the real Parisian lifestyle is like."

"Bohemian?" Kurt asked.

"Bohemian, Greek… you name it," Sebastian said, gesturing widely. "I think you will find this city has a lot to offer. If you know where to look." He tipped his hat to Kurt and bowed, and then he was gone.

Kurt stared after him in disbelief for a few moments before remembering the slip of paper in his hand. As he opened it, he took a sip of the wine Sebastian had left behind, choking on it when he saw the scrawling words on the page.

He couldn't believe his eyes. It was nearly identical to the note Quinn had found in Blaine's possession on their honeymoon: the address, the handwriting, the name. Sebastian.

Kurt felt so stupid for not putting it together before then. Of course, what were the odds that both he and Blaine would be propositioned by the same man so many months apart? He laughed to himself, stopping short when he remembered he couldn't share the story with the one person who would find it as amusing as he did.

Shivering in the cooler evening air, Kurt pulled his coat up tight around his throat and fingered the edge of the note, as if it were a thread connecting him to the life he'd left behind. He sniffed back a few traitorous tears, the weight of the day's events finally settling in on him as he stared at Sebastian's messy script. As it blurred and nearly disappeared, Kurt wiped his eyes with the back of his hand to clear them. He felt lost and alone and utterly hopeless.

"Blaine, where are you?" he whispered into the starlit night. "I need you."

* * *

That night, Kurt burned Sebastian's note in the same fireplace in his small apartment where he had let his aborted letters to Blaine meet their end. He resolved to throw himself back into his work and find a way to make a name for himself on the Parisian fashion scene.

Jean-Philippe offered to help him repair the dress he had destroyed, and things mostly returned to normal, though both he and Kurt had developed a newly manic air about them regarding their work. Nothing was ever good enough, and the seamstresses who worked in the shop stayed well clear of them both when they were creating.

A rush of orders had come in for the holiday season, a flurry of balls and celebrations creating demand for high-end, one-of-a-kind fashions that would rival anything Kurt had ever seen in New York.

He and Jean-Philippe were working late one night to finish a gown for a wealthy client — a stunning ivory dress with an intricate scrolling pattern of black velvet that had been custom made to fit the garment.

"I can't imagine the ball this must be for," Kurt said as he worked on the bodice. "It would surely be a grand affair."

"Indeed," Jean-Philippe said. "Myself, I'd be glad to have a quiet evening at home after all this work we've been doing."

"It is quite pleasant," Kurt said.

"Being alone?"

Kurt nodded. "I read a lot, and I sketch, paint… sing."

Jean-Philippe pulled a pin from between his teeth and secured the seam he was working on. "You should get out more," he said. "Perhaps meet a young lady?" He raised an eyebrow at Kurt.

Kurt snorted and tried not to laugh too loudly. "Decidedly not," he said. "I'm happy being a bachelor."

Jean-Philippe was quiet for a moment, the only sound in the room the gentle slide of their hands on the fabric as they worked. "What about a young man?" he asked suddenly.

Kurt stabbed himself in the finger with the needle he held. "Blast!"

"I didn't mean to offend you," Jean-Philippe said. "There are a lot of chestnut gatherers in Paris. It does not bother me."

"Chestnut gatherers?" Kurt asked with a raised eyebrow.

"In England we used 'lavender aunts'," Jean-Philippe said. He leaned in to Kurt and whispered conspiratorially, "It means you prefer the company of men to that of the fairer sex."

Kurt felt his skin flush hotly with embarrassment. "Am I that obvious?" he choked out.

Jean-Philippe's burst of laughter made Kurt jump. "No, it is not obvious — just a lucky guess."

"And you're not… disgusted?" Kurt asked. Even though his father had turned a blind eye and Felix had accepted it outright, Kurt still expected most people to react negatively.

Biting his lip, Jean-Philippe looked down at his hands where they rested on the ivory satin. "Well, I can't say it's for me," he said, "but I knew boys who engaged in such activities in school. It is not unheard of."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Kurt returned to his sewing. "I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear that," he said. "I'd hate to have to start my own fashion house and run you out of town."

Jean-Philippe laughed again, helping to ease Kurt's heartbeat back to a normal pace. "Kurt, do you have a place to go for Christmas Dinner?" he asked.

"Just my apartment," Kurt replied.

"Well, that won't do," Jean-Philippe said, smiling at him. "You'll be our guest at the _familial_ House of Worth."

"Oh, I couldn't impose," Kurt said, unable to make eye contact.

"Nonsense," Jean-Philippe said. "I insist."

"That's very kind of you, Monsieur Worth."

Jean-Philippe put down his sewing and clapped his hands twice in a staccato rhythm. "Why don't we call it a night? This will all be here in the morning, and I'm beyond exhausted."

"My bed sounds like Heaven right now," Kurt said, stretching his back and neck for good measure.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Jean-Philippe said, pulling a small envelope from his chest pocket, "this arrived for you earlier." He handed it to Kurt and began to switch off electric lights and blow out gas lamps.

Kurt opened the envelope to find a telegram. "It's from my father," he called out.

"Good news, I hope," Jean-Philippe replied as he stepped up behind him and glanced over his shoulder.

Kurt stared at the slip of paper in his now trembling hands, rereading it frantically for answers.

"What is it?" Jean-Philippe inquired.

Somehow Kurt managed to choke out two words: "Blaine's dead."

The telegram fell to the floor without a sound.

* * *

Late November was cold and dreary, perfectly mirroring Kurt's dimmed heart. The telegram from his father had been brief, but the subsequent letter from Rachel had revealed more.

Blaine had been sailing to Europe when he disappeared from the boat he was on. His body was never recovered, and Quinn was ordered to bed rest by her doctor to protect the baby. Rachel, of course, couldn't know how devastated Kurt was by the news, instead filling her letter with details of Quinn's despair, her own shock, and the ostentatious funeral the Andersons held for their youngest son. There was nothing to tell him why Blaine was sailing across the Atlantic, but he could only guess, and that made it hurt all the more.

The thought that Blaine had been chasing after him haunted him day and night. He felt guilty, and moreover, regretted never sending one of those letters he had burned. Maybe if he had, Blaine would have known how he felt before he had died. Maybe it wouldn't hurt so much, or feel so empty, like a great chasm had split Kurt's heart in two, severing the essence of his soul from his body.

One afternoon in early December, he sat on the steps in front of his apartment, letting the icy needles of rain pelt his body. He'd taken to sitting alone with his thoughts of late, but he relished the opportunity to sit in the rain until his tears had been washed away. It felt better to be cold and in pain than to endure the nothingness of grief. Kurt tilted his head up and let his tears be cleansed from his face, the hot sting of mourning mixed with the cruel persistence of nature.

Closing his eyes, Kurt listened to the steady patter of the rain as it met the ground. The quiet rhythm lulled him into the stoic mask that had now replaced all other expressions — the mask he wore so he could make it through each day and continue the life he no longer wanted to live.

He'd tried dulling the pain by distracting himself from it, first through drinking and when that didn't work, through finding sensory pleasure with young men who couldn't remind him less of Blaine. None of it made a difference.

Jean-Philippe had understood Kurt did not wish to talk about Blaine's death, but he still handled Kurt with kid gloves, giving him extra time off and accepting designs they both knew were not up to the House of Worth standard.

And then he'd run into Sebastian.

There was barely an exchange between them. It took only a smile from Sebastian, and Kurt felt arousal stirring deep in his belly, a hot pinpoint radiating outward and spreading over him like molten lead. Kurt couldn't explain it, but it felt like a link to Blaine somehow. The fact that Blaine had met Sebastian and that now Kurt was able to touch him solidified his grief in a way that made it bearable. It tethered him to the earth and kept him from spinning out of control, or more likely, running away.

Being with Sebastian wasn't like being with Blaine. Nothing could be. But it was as close as he was ever going to get to it in his lifetime, and so he let it happen time and again until it felt like a mechanical routine — a habit more than a conscious action.

Every Tuesday like clockwork, he'd finish up at the salon and head over to Sebastian's apartment; he'd spend the night making love to one man — if it could even be called love — and desperately wishing he were another. Then Wednesday morning, he'd go home and bathe to get ready for work. The cycle repeated each week and sporadically on a Friday or Saturday if Sebastian wasn't working at the café.

Kurt rarely spoke to Sebastian during their nights together; theirs was a language of pleasure. If Sebastian knew of Kurt's pain, he never mentioned it, nor did he ask why Kurt was so distant. It seemed he was content with their arrangement as well.

Outside of the bedroom, Kurt would verbally spar with Sebastian much as he had before, but they both knew it was a game of cat-and-mouse that would end with heated kisses and intimate touches.

Pulling his coat tighter about his neck, Kurt felt a trickle of icy rain slip down his spine, and he shivered. Sebastian would be wondering where he was, and Kurt desperately needed the escape. He stepped into the street, his foot landing in a murky puddle. Shaking off the mud, he cursed his poor luck and paused, considering going back up to his apartment to put on dry stockings. He glanced up at the hazy afternoon sky; the rain clouds looked ominous and thick. Changing his clothing would be useless, and he wouldn't need it once he got to Sebastian's anyway.

Kurt bowed his head against the torrent of rain and took two steps before nearly colliding with a damp, smelly mess of a man.

"Pardon me," Kurt said, glancing up at the bedraggled man. A thick, scraggly beard obscured most of the man's smile, and he wore a soaking wet brown suit that looked more like a sack of potatoes than actual clothing. "I don't have any money," Kurt added apologetically. He was about to step around the beggar and continue on his way when he realized the man had unmistakable eyes the precise color of whiskey.

He froze.

"Hello, Kurt."


	21. Chapter 21

Blaine couldn't help himself, laughing at the look of shock on Kurt's face even as he longed to embrace him.

"You're alive," Kurt gasped, reaching out to touch him as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. His eyes were rimmed with red and his mouth hung open in shock. "You look terrible."

"Is that any way to greet your long lost lover?" Blaine teased, standing there shivering through his laughter on the sidewalk.

"I thought I'd never see you again," Kurt said. His voice sounded choked, and Blaine couldn't be sure, but he could have sworn Kurt was crying. The steady rain obscured any evidence that might confirm Blaine's guess.

"But I told you in my letter," Blaine said, wondering why Kurt seemed so sad, "we were destined to know each other."

"I thought that letter was a goodbye," Kurt said, his shoulders sagging under the weight of an unidentifiable emotion.

"Darling, how on earth could you think that?" Blaine reached out to touch him, but Kurt recoiled. It was slight, but just enough that caused Blaine to wonder what had happened to his love since they'd last seen each other.

"Your grandfather told me you had changed your mind," Kurt said. "At first I didn't believe it, but then I got that letter, and I knew it must be true." Kurt clutched at his forehead with his hand as if he were trying to make sense of it all.

"I wanted to come see you right away, but the old man was watching me like a policeman watches a criminal. I couldn't risk it. And when I went to find you, you were gone."

"I think I need to sit down," Kurt said, looking about him for a place to do so, confusion plain on his face.

"I wouldn't mind going somewhere drier," Blaine suggested, glancing up at the darkened sky. "Perhaps I could get cleaned up." He nodded toward the steps Kurt had been sitting on when he approached.

Kurt nodded slowly, and as he turned to go, Blaine followed. They were both unnaturally silent as they climbed the stairs to Kurt's apartment.

The room was cold and dark, dampness seeping through the walls and floor like the inside of a cave. The fire had not been lit — at least not since the night before — and so the room had an unnatural chill about it. Kurt's bed looked as if it hadn't been slept in for days, the sheets slightly rumpled in the middle as if someone had sat on the bed, but had not lain beneath them. Several empty wine bottles littered the floor amid crumpled wads of paper, which had mostly accumulated around a small writing desk covered in dirty teacups, scattered papers, and broken charcoal sticks. Combined with Kurt's gaunt face and haphazard clothing, the scene sent a chill up Blaine's spine.

"Kurt, what's happened to you?" he asked, reaching out to place a comforting hand on Kurt's shoulder.

He wheeled around to face Blaine, fire raging in his icy blue eyes. "ME?" he shouted. "What happened to _me_? I could ask the same of you, Blaine Anderson."

As Kurt began to pace wildly, his fury rising off him in waves, Blaine tried to piece the mystery together in his head. But nothing made sense. Why wasn't Kurt happy to see him? Blaine had practically killed himself getting to Paris and was anticipating a happy reunion. "Kurt, I don't understand," he said. Blaine reached out and grabbed Kurt's arm, bringing his pacing to a halt. "Will you please tell me what's wrong?"

Kurt turned to face him and suddenly his face softened. His hands came up to cup Blaine's face and his eyes welled up with tears. "Is it really you?" he said as he searched Blaine's face.

"I know I look positively horrid," Blaine said. "I just need a bath and a razor…"

"Definitely a razor," Kurt said with a choked off laugh as he stroked Blaine's thick beard.

"It's still me," Blaine whispered. He reached up and placed his hand over Kurt's where it cupped his jaw.

"This feels like a dream," Kurt said. "Tell me I'm not dreaming."

"If you are, then so am I," Blaine said. "And if we're both dreaming, then let's never wake up."

With that, Kurt surged forward and kissed Blaine so soundly that he was knocked backwards, nearly losing his footing in the puddle that had formed beneath him on the floor. When he pulled away, Blaine was breathless with relief. "Now that was the greeting I was hoping for," he teased.

"Shut up and get undressed," Kurt pleaded. His hands reached up and began to unbutton Blaine's waistcoat. It was so tattered and worn that one of the buttons fell off as he was pulling it through the buttonhole.

"I think I need a new suit," Blaine said.

"It is a bit… " Kurt paused to take in Blaine's appearance. "Blaine, what happened to you? Did you _swim_ to Paris?"

Blaine glanced down at his front, the waistcoat loose and hanging where Kurt had unbuttoned it. "Not exactly, no." His mind flashed to the boat that had picked him up off the coast of New Jersey when he had gone overboard, without a penny to his name and only the suit on his back.

Kurt must have seen the faraway look in his eyes because he leaned down into Blaine's eye line and said, "It's not important now. We can talk later. If it's all right, I just want to touch you."

Blaine smiled and stroked Kurt's cheek. "Of course, my love. Whatever you wish."

Despite the chill in the room, they both undressed quickly, Kurt laying himself gently across Blaine on the still-made bed. He lowered himself slowly over Blaine's body, mapping out a trail of kisses along his torso; the touch of Kurt's mouth felt like the heated glow of a roaring fire, a gentle worship of warmth and love.

Every caress felt reverent, like Kurt was committing Blaine's entire body to memory, or perhaps worried he may never get another chance to touch it. His gaze lingered on Blaine longer than usual, his blue-green eyes focused and open in a way Blaine had never seen. Blaine's body felt electric with each touch, aflame under Kurt's heated glance.

"I still can't believe you're here," Kurt gasped.

"I can't quite believe it myself," Blaine replied, arching up to press their bodies flush. The firm outline of Kurt's cock against his own made him moan.

"Do you mind if we do it like this?" Kurt asked. "I just want to look at you."

"I'm always happy to gaze upon your face, my love, and never more so than when we are alone."

For a fraction of a second, he thought Kurt might cry, but then the look of sadness was gone, replaced by fervent passion and desire for release. As Kurt's weight settled over him, Blaine felt at peace, the war within him that had begun when he awoke alone and sweating in a darkened room now ceased.

"Kurt," he gasped. "Oh, how I've missed you."

The only response was a desperate kiss: a searching tongue and shaky breaths as Kurt's body shook above him.

Blaine ran his hands through Kurt's soft hair, savoring the feel of the familiar strands between his fingers as Kurt moved his mouth to Blaine's ear; the subtle brush of his tongue against the lobe sent Blaine's arousal into the stratosphere. A wayward moan escaped his lips as Kurt continued his path down Blaine's neck and onto his chest. He was in awe of the reverence with which Kurt worshiped his body. It felt as if every star in the universe were focused on this moment as Blaine lost himself to pleasure.

Before long their combined moans were so loud, Blaine was sure they could be heard from the street. His sweaty skin was cold where it was exposed to the air and burning hot where Kurt was pressed against him. The dry friction of their cocks against each other was just shy of painful and yet bordering on overwhelming bliss in a way that made Blaine's body ache for release. When it came, Blaine tried to make it last, holding back to the very last second and watching Kurt's face tense in pleasure, the warmth of his seed spreading across Blaine's chest. Only then did he allow himself to slip over the edge, closing his eyes tightly and sighing Kurt's name into the quiet room like a prayer.

Afterward, lying there with Kurt's head pillowed on his chest, Blaine felt like he could finally exhale, the anxiety that had been plaguing him since he left New York now a distant memory.

"You really do need a bath," Kurt said, lifting his head and resting his chin on Blaine's chest.

"I thought the vagabond look suited me," he said, rubbing a hand over his dirty beard.

Kurt rolled his eyes good-naturedly and poked him in the ribs. "I'll go downstairs and fetch some water for you so you can sponge off and have a shave," he said, and rolled off of Blaine.

As Kurt stood, Blaine watched him stretch his long neck, the taut lines of his naked body begging to be touched and adored. Blaine's eyes traveled down Kurt's torso to his perfectly formed backside and then lower to his strong legs, which flexed beautifully as he padded across the cold floor to slip on his shirt and trousers. "I'll only be a moment," he reassured, throwing a casual glance over his shoulder that set Blaine's desire aflame once more. How he had missed that face.

When Kurt closed the door behind him, Blaine dropped his head onto the pillow and stretched out his limbs, arching his back off the bed. He felt whole again, like an animal awakening from winter hibernation. Even though the room still held a chill, he felt warm from head to toe, as if Kurt's presence had thawed something within him. He knew he'd need to address the issue of New York eventually, but for now he would enjoy his time in Paris with the man he loved.

His stomach growled, interrupting his wayward thoughts. He stood up and began to rummage through Kurt's cupboard, hoping to find a scrap of bread or cheese. Finding none, he sat back down on the bed and waited for Kurt to return. Perhaps after he'd cleaned up they could find a café or market.

Muffled voices captured his attention, and he crossed the room to see who was outside. Looking out of the window, he saw a young man speaking to Kurt, looking more than a bit put out. For his part, Kurt looked contrite and kept nervously glancing behind himself. Blaine was about to call out to Kurt when he saw the young man turn, exposing his profile to Blaine's view. He recognized the man's face, but couldn't quite place it. Straining to listen to their conversation, he pushed open the window, careful to conceal himself behind the lightweight curtain, and pressed his ear to the opening.

"You said you'd be by this afternoon, Kurt. I'm not angry with you; I was just worried."

"And I told you, not to worry," Kurt said. "As you can see, I'm fine." Kurt sounded exasperated, but the man pressed on.

"So why won't you tell me where you've been?"

"Nowhere, Sebastian. I've been right here all afternoon."

Blaine stumbled backward into the apartment. Sebastian. How could he have forgotten that name? The second he heard it, he remembered the waiter who had propositioned him when he'd been in Paris on his honeymoon. But how had Kurt come to know him?

Spurred by his own curiosity, Blaine returned to the window. Kurt was still talking to Sebastian, his frustration plain in his body language. Unable to stop himself, Blaine called out, "Kurt, are you coming back?"

The two tilted their heads up to see Blaine in the window, Kurt's eyes wide and Sebastian's face pinched in confusion.

"Who's he?" Sebastian asked, returning his attention to Kurt.

Kurt's shock quickly turned to anger. "You don't even remember, do you?" he spat.

"What are you on about?" Sebastian asked, looking back up at Blaine and then down to Kurt. "If you wanted a little variety, all you had to do was say so."

"It's not very gentlemanly to shout into the street," Blaine said, hoping to diffuse the tension. "Why don't you both come up?"

Kurt looked as if he wanted to slap Blaine, but he obliged, Sebastian trailing along behind him. Blaine hurried to slip on his clothes, tripping on his own pant leg as he searched helplessly for his shirt. He found it and slipped it over his head just as he heard Kurt's footfalls outside the door, but when he opened the door, Kurt was alone.

"Where's your friend?" Blaine said, confused.

"I sent him away; I thought it best if we have this conversation in private," Kurt said, handing Blaine a pitcher of freezing cold water.

Blaine nearly dropped it in shock, his hands suddenly and inexplicably shaking. Setting the pitcher on a nearby table, he plopped himself down in a chair before his legs began to wobble. It felt like something big was coming, but he didn't know what, and his imagination was running away with him. He looked up at Kurt, hoping for a reprieve from the thoughts swirling through his brain.

"So I'm sure you've figured out who that was?" Kurt said.

"Sebastian," Blaine said. "I met him when I was in Paris. He wrote the note Quinn showed you."

Kurt nodded slowly, confirming Blaine's fears.

"You're in love with him," Blaine said, deflating.

"Oh God, no!" Kurt shrieked, looking horrified at the notion. "Decidedly not."

Blaine's head shot up. "Then what was that argument about?"

Kurt sighed. "When you stopped me on the street earlier, I was headed to Sebastian's apartment. He came looking for me when I never arrived."

"Well, surely he thought it possible you had been detained," Blaine said, not understanding why Kurt looked so serious. His heart raced as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

"Perhaps," Kurt said. "But I've been to see him every Tuesday for the past month. He had a right to expect me."

Swallowing heavily, Blaine asked, "Why do you go to see him?"

"Because I needed something to cling to," Kurt said. "Something that reminded me of you."

"So you went to the bed of another man?" Blaine felt his chest contract, as if something within him had cracked and his very essence was bleeding out through the chasm.

"I thought you were dead!" Kurt shouted. " _Everyone_ thinks you're dead."

Blaine found himself unable to speak, his mouth hanging open like a fish too long out of water. "Everyone thinks I'm… _dead_?" he rasped.

Kurt collapsed into the chair opposite him. "Blaine, when you disappeared off that boat and they never found you…" He trailed off, unable to look at Blaine as he wiped a tear from his eyes. "They had a funeral for you; Quinn nearly lost the baby."

It was as if Blaine had been punched. He couldn't get a breath and his hands shook even more violently. The warmth that had radiated off him earlier was gone in a flash, his hands now icy and stiff, his feet numb and stony beneath him. "Is she— is the baby? Oh my God, Kurt. I have to go home."

"Blaine, did you hear me? Everyone thinks you're dead. You can't go home."

"I'll just explain what happened; it will all be put right. Quinn will understand. My parents… I'll just explain. But I have to get home." He stood as if going home were a simple matter of walking six blocks rather than the reality of the ocean that separated him from it.

Kurt laughed, his eyes focused on a stray crumb that he rolled beneath his index finger.

"What's so funny?"

Shaking his head, Kurt looked up and leveled Blaine with a steely gaze. "You haven't even explained it to me yet."

Just as quickly as his extremities had gone cold, Blaine's face suddenly felt warm, a rush of blood making his head spin. Or maybe it was because he hadn't eaten in two days. "Just tell me if Quinn's alright," Blaine pleaded, taking his seat again. "She didn't lose the baby?"

"She's fine," Kurt said quietly. "The doctor put her on bed rest, but Rachel said she's doing just fine."

"Rachel's seen her?" Blaine's head ached from a lack of nourishment and an abundance of extraordinary information.

"Apparently the two have become something akin to friends," Kurt said with a shrug. "It baffles me, but I'm glad they have each other." He was quiet for a moment, his face a solemn mask of contemplation. "How did you get here, Blaine? And why does everyone think you're dead?"

Blaine took a deep breath. "I was coming to see you," he said. "I knew my grandfather had told you I didn't want to see you, but I had written you that letter, hoping you'd realize it wasn't true. As soon as he was gone, I went to your shop to see you, but it was boarded up, and you were long gone. It took me a few days to work up the nerve to inquire about you from your father, and he told me you had gone to Paris. He wouldn't say why. I was beside myself; I thought you had left me."

"I thought you had left _me_ ," Kurt said.

"Darling, I'm sorry," he said. "I am so terribly and truly sorry."

Kurt nodded. "Go on."

"After that I booked passage on a ship to Paris as soon as I could. Quinn didn't want me to go, but I wanted to be back New York in time for the baby, and I had to see you." He reached out and took Kurt's hand in his. It felt like cold marble, and he noticed Kurt was shaking. "Darling, you're cold. We should light a fire."

"I'm fine," Kurt insisted, pulling his hand away. "Finish your story. The fire can wait."

Blaine looked down at his empty palm and curled his fingers into a fist. He didn't like the distance he felt between himself and Kurt, and he feared his story might widen that rift, but he had to get it out — every ridiculous detail.

"I fell from the boat," Blaine said matter-of-factly. "But you know that part." He paused; he could still feel the icy burn of the water around him, like a thousand tiny needles piercing his skin, and he shivered at the memory. "I was picked up by a cargo ship minutes, maybe hours, later — unconscious and freezing. The crew said I was feverish for several days, but that I kept mumbling something about Paris. So they kept me in bed and gave me water — and they kept their course for England. When I awoke, they told me what had happened."

He glanced over at Kurt and found him staring at his lap where he had placed his hands and was now pulling at his fingers while he listened to Blaine talk. He looked like he was fighting back tears, but Blaine didn't say anything, choosing instead to press on. He cleared his throat.

"They dropped me in Dover when they docked, but I had no money and no clothes, and I was starving… but I was alive. I decided pretty quickly that it would be easier to continue on to Paris rather than trying to make it all the way home, but without identification and looking like I do, well… I wasn't able to book passage to cross the Channel."

Kurt stood up suddenly, his posture stiff and unyielding. Blaine watched him cross to the fireplace and set about building a fire. When he realized Blaine had stopped talking, he said, "Continue," but he didn't glance up.

Blaine was unsure of what Kurt was thinking, but he kept talking, explaining how he tried to get work doing anything that could help him get to Paris. He recounted the night he hung around the docks begging for money like a common street urchin, which Blaine guessed he actually was, at least for the time being. But when he got to the night he finally figured out how to earn enough money to make the final leg of his journey, he couldn't find his words. His throat clenched tightly around his unformed syllables. The fire roared to life in front of Kurt and Blaine jumped, the sudden flash of color startling him.

"And then what happened?" Kurt said, warming his hands against the blaze.

"I met a gentleman by the name of Willoughby who said he would buy me a hot meal if I would perform a service for him and suddenly I had a way to earn money."

Kurt turned his head and raised an eyebrow. "Did he mistake you for a porter?"

Blaine almost laughed at the absurdity of the notion. At that point he'd been in the same suit for nearly a month and his beard had grown thick and matted. His hair hung in loose, messy curls that were greasy from a lack of washing rather than the slick weight of pomade. "No, Kurt, I doubt very much that he mistook me for a porter."

"Then what did he want?" Kurt asked, his innocence so overwhelmingly charming that Blaine had to practically restrain himself from walking over to him and kissing him until the innocence was gone.

Blaine closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "He thought I was a rent boy," he said. He waited for Kurt's response, but there was only silence. Opening one eye, Blaine saw a look of shocked amusement on Kurt's face. "What's so funny?"

"Just the notion of a gentleman mistaking you for a rent boy," Kurt said. "Looking like that? Chandler would roll over in his grave."

"Chandler's _dead_?" Blaine asked in shock.

Kurt nodded solemnly. "He was beaten to death by a client. I guess, in the end, that's why I came to Paris. With you committed to your family, or so I thought, and Chandler gone, I had nothing left. So I came here to start a new life." Kurt gestured to his surroundings before laughing sardonically and dropping his head in his hands. "Seems I should have waited just a bit longer."

"Darling, don't blame yourself," Blaine said, rising to console him. He pulled Kurt up on his feet and pulled him into a tight embrace. "We both did what we had to do, nothing more."

"All of those times I went to Sebastian," Kurt said, finally breaking as he sobbed into Blaine's filthy shirtfront. "I so wanted him to be you, but it never felt right. It _never_ did." His tears soaked through to Blaine's skin almost immediately as they stood there clutching each other. "Promise me," Kurt said after a moment.

"Anything."

"Promise me you won't leave me again," he begged.

"Kurt…"

Kurt stiffened in Blaine's arms. "No," he said.

Blaine pulled back, keeping his hands on Kurt's upper arms. "I have to go back," he said. "I can't leave Quinn alone to raise the baby."

"Why can't you?" Kurt asked, his eyes a deep ocean of tears. "Everyone thinks you're dead already, so what's the difference?"

"The difference is I wouldn't feel right about it. It's not the honorable thing to do."

Kurt shrugged off Blaine's hands. "Damn your honor!" he shouted. "You've always done the honorable thing, and look where it's gotten you… where it's gotten us!" He was just shy of ranting, and Blaine could do nothing but watch the storm roll in. "You go out of your way to make your insufferable grandfather happy and all he does is work to make you miserable. You marry a woman you don't love — _can't_ love — and she carries another man's baby! I break off my engagement to my best friend, nearly ruining her reputation and you leave me… for what? To uphold some ridiculous agreement you made to your family? I've had enough!"

"Kurt, please…"

But his words were cut off by a bruising kiss. Kurt's mouth was harsh, his tongue demanding, but Blaine just let him take. He needed this; they needed this. As he felt Kurt's anger begin to subside, the kiss transitioned to a sweeter, more subdued caress of the lips. Kurt's breathing slowed, and he collapsed into Blaine's arms, his head resting on Blaine's chest.

"I'm just so tired," he said. "So very tired of fighting the world when all I want is to be with you."

"That's all I want too, my love," Blaine said, stroking Kurt's hair where his head was tucked under Blaine's chin. "We'll think of something."

* * *

They didn't speak of it again for over a week. Kurt seemed preoccupied with showing Blaine around Paris, introducing him to friends and taking him to all his favorite places. Jean-Philippe seemed the one most excited to meet him, telling Blaine how Kurt had been devastated by news of his death. Kurt had blushed and looked away but did not deny it. It broke Blaine's heart to know how hurt Kurt had been by his actions, but it was an unspoken rule that they not speak of it. Someone should have told Jean-Philippe.

"So will you be staying here in Paris for the New Year, Monsieur Anderson?" he asked.

Blaine was sitting in the back room at the House of Worth, swinging his feet against the legs of a tall stool, as he watched Kurt work on a gown for yet another Christmas ball. At Jean-Philippe's inquiry, his legs froze in mid air.

"I… Well…"

"He has to get back to his _family_ ," Kurt said without looking up from the tiny stitches he was using to attach blue beads that sparkled in the light.

"What a pity," Jean-Philippe said. "Welcoming a new year in Paris cannot be matched."

"I would love to see it," Blaine said truthfully.

Kurt snorted.

"Perhaps I can stay a bit longer," Blaine added, his voice rising on the end like a question.

"Wonderful," Jean-Philippe said. "You must come to the ball my wife and I are hosting. Kurt will be there."

"Blaine isn't much for dancing," Kurt said. "Two left feet."

Blaine was about to object, but held his tongue when he saw the tension on Kurt's face. Kurt knew Blaine was an excellent dancer—had commented on it many times, in fact. Blaine bit his lip and smiled apologetically at Jean-Philippe.

"You won't need to dance," he said with a laugh. "If you are still in Paris on the thirty-first, I insist you come, and that is final. Kurt, you see that he has something to wear." And with that he disappeared into the shop.

Kurt continued stitching, and Blaine watched him in silence for a few moments. The steady motion of Kurt's deft fingers was hypnotic. It reminded Blaine of a dance, like the elegant dancers at the ballet who twirled and jumped on strong legs but landed like birds. Kurt was an artist.

And, oh, Blaine loved him so.

Suddenly Kurt's hands faltered and he missed the fabric, poking himself in the finger. "Damn!" he hissed.

The spell broken, Blaine felt free to speak. "Why did you tell Monsieur Worth that I can't dance?" he asked.

Kurt shrugged without looking up. "I didn't want you to feel obligated to stay for the ball," he said.

"I don't," Blaine said.

"Good," Kurt said and went back to sewing.

Blaine found himself entranced by his movements again, the way Kurt picked up each bead with the tip of the needle and slid it over the thread before pricking the cobalt silk and attaching it to the fabric. He made quick work of it, sewing faster than Blaine thought possible.

"You've gotten better," Blaine said.

Kurt shot him a sideways glance.

"You were always good," Blaine said. "Wonderful, actually… but now… Well, you're like a rose that's blossomed from what was once a tightly formed bud. You've opened up and unfurled for all the world to admire. I wish I could have witnessed it happening."

Kurt's hands froze, the needle between his fingers shook for a moment before he lowered it to the table. He looked up at Blaine with tears in his eyes. "Thank you," he said. It was a whisper that barely reached Blaine's ears.

He hopped down from his stool and approached Kurt carefully. "I meant every word, Kurt. You are a gift, and I'm glad you chose to share yourself with me."

"Blaine, I don't want you to go," he said.

"Darling, I know… and I don't want to go. But I must."

Kurt nodded slowly, a tiny sniffle belying his sorrow. "I know," he said.

Blaine smiled at him, wishing he could steal the sadness from Kurt's eyes. "I'd like to stay for the ball," he said, pausing to tilt his head and catch Kurt's eye. "Would you accompany me?"

A tiny smile played across Kurt's face as he leaned forward to press a kiss to Blaine's lips. "I'd love to," he said.

* * *

With plans to stay in Paris through the New Year, Blaine decided to delay the inevitable just a bit longer and put off writing to his parents until it was absolutely necessary. But when the day finally came, he asked Kurt for some privacy and seated himself at Kurt's tiny writing desk with a few blank sheets of paper, and a weight on his heart.

Words would not come to him, and even though his mind flooded with thoughts, he could not make them form a single sentence on the paper, let alone an entire letter. Something prevented him from confessing his continued existence to the very people who had given him life.

"Dear Mother," he said aloud to himself. "I'm alive."

He laughed bitterly. It felt completely ridiculous and yet somehow not dramatic enough. "What could be more monumental than life itself?" he asked himself in frustration.

He sighed and dropped his head on the table, realizing too late that he'd run his sleeve through the fresh ink. He laid his head there and stared at the grain of the wood beneath him, noting every scratch and stain, the tiny scuffs of charcoal from where Kurt had sketched his designs and missed the paper. A stack of drawings and letters took up a third of the surface, haphazardly organized by Kurt before he'd left, to give room to Blaine to write.

A sliver of newsprint stuck out from the pile, pin wheeling out like a child's plaything. Blaine flicked the edge of it, relishing the sharp snap it made. He did it again and again, letting his mind wander. How could he tell his mother that he had not only survived falling off that boat, but had been living comfortably in Paris for the last three weeks, letting them think he was dead?

He sat up and stretched his back, savoring the pops and cracks as his muscles loosened and his bones settled. He picked up the pen and dipped it in the ink, getting as far as "Dear Mother" again before he froze. Crumpling the paper tighter than was really necessary, he tossed it in the pile of discarded drafts that littered the floor at his feet.

"This is impossible," he said, dropping his head in his hands.

Unable to focus on his own task, he glanced over at the stack of Kurt's papers. The indiscriminate way that Kurt had piled them up suddenly frustrated him beyond belief, and he was overcome with the need to right it.

Blaine grabbed the entire thing, taking the drawing on top and placing it to the side. The next item in the pile was a letter from Rachel, a looping scrawl with ornate flourishes and several underlined words. Blaine smiled at the drama of it. He continued sorting the pile, placing sketches to his right, and letters to his left. When he reached the newspaper clipping, he created a third pile above the others. Just as he was setting it on the desk, his own name popped out at him.

_ANDERSON – On Monday, Nov. 4, Blaine D. in the 26th year of his age, was lost at sea. He was the youngest son of Dr. Andrew and Helen of Manhattan and is survived by his wife Lucille and their unborn child._

_Relatives and friends are respectfully invited to a funeral service at …_

Blaine stopped reading, unable to catch a solid breath. Blinking in disbelief, he read his own obituary three times before it seemed real. To everyone he'd ever known, with the lone exception of Kurt, he was dead — gone from this world and nothing more than a ghost. His wife would be in mourning, sorting through his things. Sam would have read his will, revealing that he'd left everything to Quinn and giving her complete control over his estate. His parents would have placed a monument in the family plot, next to his younger sister, who only lived to the age of three before succumbing to whooping cough.

Picturing his entire family sitting around the dining room table for Christmas dinner, all dressed in black and mourning his loss, made Blaine's heart ache. He longed to write to Quinn or his brother about the gathering at the Worths' and the decadent tobacco Jean-Philippe had given him, or the new cigarette case he had received from Kurt. But he had no one to tell.

"I'm dead," he whispered.

He stared at the paper for what felt like mere moments, but must have been longer because he heard Kurt's footsteps approaching the door. Hurriedly, Blaine restacked the papers and crumpled his last aborted letter. Turning just in time to see Kurt bursting through the door with several fat parcels in his arms. The smile on his face warmed Blaine's heart.

"You made quick work of your errands," Blaine said.

"I've been gone more than two hours," Kurt replied, tilting his head questioningly.

Glancing over at the clock, Blaine noticed that, in fact, two hours twenty had passed since Kurt had left him there. "I must have really gotten lost in my own head," he muttered to himself.

Kurt stepped closer to Blaine, but still looked at him expectantly. "Have you finished?" Kurt asked solemnly after a moment.

Unable to speak, Blaine simply nodded.

"Good," Kurt said with a smile. "We have a lot to do before the ball next week." He dropped the parcels he carried on the table and raised his eyebrows at Blaine.

"What are you planning?" Blaine asked, intrigued by the glint in Kurt's blue eyes as he forgot all about his unwritten letter.

"Making you a suit, silly," Kurt replied, untying the twine that held the brown paper around the fabric he had purchased. "You can't very well go to a formal ball in your own suit, and wearing my things is out of the question."

"Of course," Blaine said.

He pulled out a bolt of fabric dark as midnight; it looked finer than any wool or silk Blaine had ever seen — thick and heavy, a smoothly woven blank canvas that Kurt would use to paint a masterpiece.

Blaine ran his hand along the edge of the fabric; it was still cool to the touch from being outside in the crisp December air, but Blaine could tell it would make a warm and elegant suit.

"Kurt, it's stunning," he said.

"You shall be the most handsome man at that stuffy old ball," Kurt said, with a warm smile.

"Impossible," Blaine replied. "You'll be there."

Kurt lowered his head in embarrassment, but his eyes fluttered up to meet Blaine's. "I love you," he said.

"And I you."

* * *

Kurt worked on Blaine's suit day and night to get it ready for the Worths' New Year's Eve gala, and the result was a stunning formal suit that put all other suits Blaine had ever worn to shame. It was so perfectly fitted to his physique that it made him look strong and virile, which he hadn't felt since before Kurt had left New York.

Blaine had been adamant that Kurt not spend money on him, but he allowed Kurt to give him a few coins to visit the barber and have a proper shave and haircut for the ball.

The steady scratch of the razor against his cheek lulled him into a dreamlike state. He hadn't felt so clean in months. The scent of pomade was a welcome visitor to his senses as he allowed himself to be molded back into the gentleman he had once been.

Stepping into the crisp morning, with sunlight streaming down on his face for the first time in weeks, Blaine felt reborn, no longer burdened with the tale of his death. Even the sharp sting of the frigid temperature against his bare face refreshed him.

He hummed a tune to himself on the short walk back to Kurt's apartment, and was greeted with smiles and the occasional "Bonjour!" from the people he passed on the street. With his haggard appearance molded back into his usual distinguished form, he was able to freely engage with everyone, all remnants of his past transgressions removed.

He took the steps two at a time and burst through the door to the apartment with a broad smile on his face. Kurt's jaw dropped at the sight of him.

"Blaine, you look…" Kurt paused, his words halting on his lips as he gaped at him.

"I feel free," Blaine said. "As if I could conquer the world."

"I wouldn't be surprised if you did," Kurt teased, as Blaine stepped closer to him.

"You like it?"

"It's…" Kurt raked his eyes over Blaine's face, taking in his hair and the entire length of his body too. "Blaine, it's _you_."

Such a simple phrase, but it was as if Blaine's soul had been returned to his body with just one sentence from Kurt, and suddenly he _knew_.

"I'm not going back to New York."

Kurt's eyes flashed brightly as they went wide with shock. "You're… what?"

"Not going back," Blaine repeated. "Everyone thinks I'm dead, and going back now would just force me back into a lie, living a half life and hoping I could find a way to be with you. But this is my chance. It's a chance for _us…_ to make a life together, Kurt. Here in Paris, where no one knows me, and _yours_ is the name on everyone's lips. This is what we were meant for. I know that now."

Kurt remained silent, his eyes watery but his face an imperceptible mask free of emotion.

"Well, say something," Blaine pleaded, feeling a tear streak his own cheek.

"You're not going home?" Kurt said, sounding disbelieving.

Blaine shook his head firmly. "No, Kurt," he said, placing a hand on Kurt's cheek. "I'm saying I _am_ home."

Tears fell from Kurt's eyes as a laugh escaped his throat, and he surged forward to capture Blaine in a firm embrace. "I can't believe we don't have to say goodbye," Kurt whispered, his words tickling the back of Blaine's neck as he held him.

"Never," Blaine said.

* * *

The ballroom was festooned with brightly colored garlands; the tables laden with decadent pastries and cheeses. A deep fuchsia punch stood out from the muted colors of the buffet, and, of course, wine and champagne flowed freely.

The partygoers were jovial and lively, waltzing and laughing as the night wore on. It was a vibrant party if Blaine ever saw one. The conversation tended toward artistry and invention, a refreshing change from the stuffy New York society parties that Blaine usually attended. He found himself fascinated with talk of a new device called the _cinematographe_ that the Lumière brothers had revealed earlier that week at Salon Indien du Grand Café.

"The pictures actually _move_ ," one man said. "It was as if the photographs had come to life, people walking right out of the factory, plain as day."

An audible gasp rose up from the people listening to the man recount his story. Blaine leaned forward in excitement. "Will they show it again?" he asked.

"I imagine they must," the man replied. "There was such excitement about it. I expect it to be in high demand in short order."

Blaine caught Kurt's eye across the crowded room and they smiled at each other. He felt so proud to be Kurt's, to know that this man loved him in ways he didn't deserve. They continued to interact with everyone but each other until they could no longer avoid standing close and brushing hands intimately, resisting the urge to disappear into a darkened corner or an unused room.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Kurt asked, his eyes focused on the dance floor.

"Immensely," Blaine replied, following Kurt's gaze. "And you?"

Kurt nodded. "Have you not danced yet?"

"Not yet. I've been busy talking about this wonderful new invention and art and…poetry. Kurt, Paris is simply _amazing_ ," he gushed.

"I can't argue with that," he said, running his finger along Blaine's shirt cuff. "Shall we head home?" His voice was low and deep, a gentle seduction of words that tickled Blaine's spine.

"Let's at least stay until the clock strikes twelve," Blaine implored, unwilling to give up the gaiety of the evening just yet. "And then we'll rush out of here before the champagne begins to run out."

"As you wish, my love."

They stood there for a while, watching couples dancing and enjoying a glass of wine each. Blaine lit a cigarette and offered one to Kurt; the smoke curled about them in a seductive pattern that Blaine wanted to chase with his mouth, right across Kurt's cheek and onto his lips. He was about to suggest they leave, the New Year be damned, when the string quartet began to play the opening notes to a familiar tune. Blaine could just make out that Kurt was singing the words to "After the Ball" under his breath, and in a moment of unguarded spontaneity, he turned to him and held out his hand. "Dance with me," he said.

Kurt's head pivoted in his direction. "What… _Here_?" he asked.

"Yes, here," Blaine said, his hand still held in mid air between them.

"But people will talk," Kurt said.

Blaine leaned in to whisper in his ear, letting his extended hand drop and graze Kurt's shoulder. "Let them."

Kurt shivered at the contact, but he glanced nervously about when Blaine retreated from the ghosting touch. "I…"

"No one's watching, Kurt," Blaine interrupted. "Please. I'd like to begin the New Year in your arms." He held his hand out again. "May I have this dance?"

Kurt bit his lip, but it only took a moment for him to decide as he accepted Blaine's hand. "Yes, you may," he said with a flirtatious smile.

Blaine took the lead, waltzing Kurt around the ballroom as they had always wished they could. He could feel a few eyes on them, but no one was looking on with open disdain, simply what resembled mild curiosity.

"This feels right," Kurt said, breathless. "Just like I always knew it would."

"Dancing?" Blaine asked.

"Dancing with _you_ ," Kurt replied.

"You will always be my dance partner," Blaine said. "I swear it. "

"Shh," Kurt whispered. "Just dance with me."

"Fearlessly," Blaine said, "and forever."

**~fin~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are all together at the end. I have a small epilogue that will be posted momentarily, but otherwise, this is the last installment of Gilded Cage. Thank you so much for all your kind words and wonderful comments over these last few months. *besos*


	22. Epilogue

In subsequent years, Kurt kept up with everyone in New York by way of letters from Rachel. With every missive from the past he had left behind, Blaine was reassured that he had done the right thing by staying in Paris with Kurt.

As he had predicted, Quinn gave birth to a baby girl that spring — whom she named Elizabeth. She had Quinn's fair hair and everyone said she had Blaine's amber eyes, even though Blaine knew they came from another man.

Two years later a letter from Rachel informed them that Quinn had married Sam Evans. Blaine assumed they had grown close as a result of Sam handling Blaine's estate. A year later, they had a son they named Blaine.

Kurt spent the afternoon comforting Blaine when that letter came. His tears flowed from a mix of joy and sorrow that left him inconsolable for the better part of a week. But eventually, he found happiness in his heart for two of his dearest friends. He was glad neither was alone, even if his guilt rose up any time a letter came from Rachel about little Blaine.

Together the Evanses were pioneers in the women's suffrage movement; Kurt got a letter from Quinn herself when the 19th Amendment finally passed in 1920, complete with a photo of her and Rachel proudly wearing their "Votes for Women" sashes. He and Blaine framed it and placed it over their mantle.

Rachel married Finn and eventually had two children by him. One was a gangly beanstalk of a boy whom they named Christopher after Finn's father, the other a freckly faced little girl they named Amelia.

Rachel had made a name for herself on stage, as she always wished she would, but eventually gave it up to raise her family. Years later, Kurt still kept clippings from all her shows, which she had sent him, of course.

Just after the turn of the century, Kurt's father was asked by Henry Ford to help him start a fledgling business near Detroit. Burt and Carole moved to Michigan in 1901. They died six months apart in 1927.

Blaine's grandfather died after falling down the stairs at Markland in 1924. Although he had no way of knowing, Blaine suspected Mary had a hand in it.

Kurt continued to design for the House of Worth well into his forties; his designs were in demand all over Europe, earning him accolades from the same level of society that had deemed him unworthy in New York.

Blaine's path was a little different. After being intrigued by the tale of the cinematographe on New Year's Eve, Blaine became enamored of the burgeoning film industry. In 1897, he acted in a short film by Alice Guy, head of production for the Gaumont Film Company. She was bringing the concept of narrative stories to motion pictures and Blaine was enraptured.

When the Great War broke out in 1914, Kurt and Blaine followed the fledgling American film industry to southern California, where many filmmakers had fled to escape the monopoly of the Edison Company in New York.

Changing his name to Dorian Beaumont—a half-joking suggestion of Kurt's that seemed right enough that it stuck—Blaine starred in a few silent films. When his third film became something of a boon at the box office, Kurt received a giddy letter from Rachel.

_My dear Kurt,_

_You will not believe the film I just saw. Well, it's actually some silly picture with an overdramatic love story, but I think you'd agree it had the most handsome leading man. His name is Dorian Beaumont and he looks just like Blaine Anderson, God rest his soul. Can you believe it? You simply must see it!_

_Do you think you'll make it home for Christmas this year? Little Amelia is begging for a visit from her Uncle Kurt, and it's been ages since we've seen you. Christopher is so tall now; I think he'll be as tall as Finn._

_Quinn sends her love, and little Beth too._

_Maybe if you can't come to New York, we could come see you in California. I hear it's not nearly as rustic as it once was._

_Please write soon. I miss you dearly._

_Affectionately Yours,  
Rachel_

Kurt laid the letter on the table after he had finished reading it, glancing up to find Blaine with a devilish smirk on his face.

"Perhaps it's time you give up the acting career, darling," Kurt said.

"I've heard Miami is nice," Blaine said. "There's an oceanfront community that all the well-to-dos are talking about. Maybe we could make a go of it there."

Kurt sighed, but only half-heartedly. "How many times do I have to uproot my life for you?" he teased.

"Well, I did _die_ for you," Blaine said, leaning across the table and kissing Kurt soundly.

"You kiss awfully well for a dead man."

"And _you_ talk too much."

"Maybe you should kiss me again," Kurt challenged.

"Always," Blaine replied.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be posting extra tidbits about the history of the Ponce and St. Augustine as well as some photos and facts about the real people mentioned in Gilded Cage over on my [tumblr](http://randomactsofdouchebaggery.tumblr.com).


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